


Petty (With A Prior)

by lunchbucket



Series: Pettyverse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Attorney Sirius, Comedy, Courthouse AU, Jury Duty, Lawyer Sirius, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 64,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24702565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunchbucket/pseuds/lunchbucket
Summary: Showing up for his ‘civic duty’ is one thing, getting out of jury duty without losing his shit is another. Tack on an attorney who finds the whole fiasco hilarious, and Remus might as well be in hell.The Courthouse AU of my dreams.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Pettyverse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000530
Comments: 237
Kudos: 478





	1. Day 1, Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's been my destiny to write some sort of legal AU for a while now, but nothing felt right until this idea popped into my head. And it was well worth the wait, because I've never had such an enjoyable time writing something :). 
> 
> I highly recommend you take a moment to listen to this [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CmrOB_q3tjo) before you start reading, to really get the full experience. Updates will be every couple of days.

There are few people in the world who would describe Remus Lupin as unpredictable. Certainly not his mother, who experienced no shock when her son announced he’d be staying nearby for college, deciding he preferred the proximity to his family and the full-ride state school scholarship over a new adventure to a more prestigious university. Nor his best friend, Peter, when Remus drove all night to be the best man at his wedding the following day, as he was not one to take time off of work to make the trip during daylight hours — _that_ would be unnecessary.

Perhaps his college girlfriend had been surprised that early morning of their junior year when Remus showed up at her doorstep, forlorn and apologetic because he couldn’t keep up the charade any longer, for her sake or his. And maybe his public speaking professor had been caught off guard when the unassuming, studious student in her class gave the most impassioned and well-articulated speech of the year about the psychology of influence, of all things. 

But all in all, the man’s measured, consistent approach to life can be relied on in almost every situation. He isn’t rigid, per se, but sticking to a practical set of principles and a well-structured routine has been his not-so-secret key to success. It’s his lifeblood, his comfort, and his religion. Remus is known for being put-together and prepared in every situation, but often he worries, secretly and only to himself, that if his routine were knocked off its kilter, whether the entire construction of his life might collapse into a heap of chaos and dust right in front of his own eyes.

 _But you gotta keep your head up, oh oh!_ _  
__And you can let your hair down, eh eh!_

It’s early. Earlier than Remus is accustomed to waking up on a normal day, given he doesn’t need to be in the office until 9am at the worst. Most of his colleagues at the massive tech company he works for waltz in far later than that, and he likes to think of himself as a morning person comparatively. But right now, it’s early. Far too early for that god-awful tune to be blaring from the phone across the bed from him. 

_I know it’s hard, know it’s hard_ _  
__To remember sometimes_

His eyelids pull up with resistance, his consciousness clicking into place as the first seconds of his morning tick by. He groans internally as he takes in his surroundings, another man sleeping in his bed next to him — Patrick, Remus remembers — his phone alarm continuing to shriek out a song he wishes he could block out of his life altogether. 

_You are gonna turn out fine_ _  
__Oh, you turn out fine_ _  
__Fine, oh, you turn out fine_

Remus sits up, pressing a hand against Patrick’s bare shoulder as he tries to quell the annoyance that always seems to spring up during the rare instances when someone is up in his space like this the morning after. As much as he wants to question his decision-making the night prior — to have a full blown conversation with himself about how he shouldn’t have gotten into this mess, but _oh on the other hand it’s such a rarity, so maybe I shouldn’t be so_ _hard on myself_ — today is Wednesday, and he really has to get moving. 

“Good morning,” Patrick murmurs luxuriously, and the fact that it’s paired with a satisfied morning smile and sounds of something akin to a _purr_ makes it all the worse. If this had been any other day, maybe Remus would have found the lazy energy charming — _maybe_ — but he sincerely doubts it, and another pang of guilt shoots through him. 

_But you gotta keep your head up, oh—_

“Please can you turn that off?”

“Hm?” Patrick asks, sensing neither the urgency nor the lack of affection in Remus’ demeanor.

Remus waves his hand in the direction of the nightstand, more and more frantically with each passing second that Patrick continues not picking up on the meaning in his gesture. “Your alarm.” 

“Oh,” Patrick says with a small furrow of his eyebrows, some-fucking-how unaware of the tune until Remus brings it to his attention. “Sure,” he mutters as he turns away to reach for the phone.

Remus breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks,” and then once silence follows, “I’m going to take a quick shower. I need to get out of here pretty early actually.”

Patrick lets his phone drop onto his chest and stretches his arms overhead, utterly comfortable. “Mm alright.”

Remus pushes out a cough before turning his focus to the floor, praying to the gods that his pair of boxers chucked on the ground from the night before is close enough to grab without having to uncover himself. But alas, luck is not on his side and a short walk over to his dresser across the room is required. With a sigh of defeat and general malaise, he pushes off his bed and bites the bullet, moving towards the drawer he has his sights set on.

But a quick glance over his shoulder informs him that he has lucked out and Patrick has zonked out again. Even though this presents a new problem altogether — because Remus _really_ needs to leave soon and is not alright with leaving a near-stranger alone in his place — he’ll gladly take the mere absence of interested eyes as a small victory. At least for the time being.

He grabs a pair of boxers and walks to his bathroom, appreciating the lock on the door for its guarantee of privacy for the next 20 minutes of his morning routine. The night before was perfectly fine, and as usual he’s being too harsh on the man currently occupying his bed on the other side of the door, but this was always the problem wasn’t it? Dating in general just isn’t an activity that suits him well; it feels more like a slog than something he can actively enjoy the experience of, even when he goes into it trying to be casual. And granted, although he had given into an easy opportunity last night that he quite frankly had gone without for far too long, it never seems to feel worth it the morning after. The intimacy without the familiarity sucks, and this awkward little song and dance is not something he can stomach more than once every couple of months, and only when his neglected sex drive becomes too deafaning. 

His upcoming day of jury duty tacks a new element onto his strange morning, even though it’s shaping up to be a low pressure day, given all he has to do is show up and bide his time. 

He turns on the shower and gives it a minute to warm up before stepping in. As he rinses the suds out of his hair, he figures he’ll probably be sent home by mid-morning and can spend the rest of his day working from his couch and whatnot— maybe clean up, cycle if it’s a sunny day, cook a nice meal while he listens to a podcast, or maybe none of that; the world is his oyster. It’ll be a good day, no matter how he slices it, and yet he can’t help but yearn for the predictable familiarity of his normal routine. That’s just the way he is.

The shower wakes him up in a far more pleasant way than _Keep Your Head Up_ ever could, and he’s soon opening the bathroom door with the hope that Patrick will have headed back home, or at the very least be dressed and ready to go.

 _I’m seeing all the angles, thoughts get tangled_ _  
__I start to compromise my life and my purpose_

Hope had never been stricken so resolutely in one go, and Remus huffs at the realization that (i) Patrick is now back in a full on REM cycle, and (ii) he had the audacity to only press the _snooze_ button on the alarm the first time around. Remus gives up his plans to head over to his closet and diverts his path over to the side of the bed that Patrick is slumbering on, wondering what the purpose of an alarm that annoying is if it can’t even wake you up.

 _But you gotta keep your head up, oh oh!_ _  
__And you can let your hair down, eh eh!_

Remus swipes the alarm off for good, and then, the next task is a not-so-gentle shake of Patrick’s shoulder. “Patrick, I really need to get out of here soon. I need to be out the door in fifteen minutes at the latest.”

Patrick awakens for the second time that morning, less relaxed than the first time at least, and seems to recognize that there is an urgency to the day. “Fuck, sorry man,” he atones groggily, then swings his legs to the floor. “I’m not used to getting up at this hour.”

“Not a problem,” Remus puts out, not unkindly. Determining that he can trust Patrick to get a move on this time, he turns on his heels to head for his closet to find the most appropriate thing to wear to the courthouse.

A pair of navy slacks and a light blue button-up is his go-to clothing choice for a step up from casual, usually only reserved for important meetings. It’s been years since he has had jury duty, somehow always managing to evade what is supposed to be an annual requirement, and his memory fails him about the expected dress attire. Thinking it better to be overdressed than underdressed if anything, he grabs a blazer for good measure and drapes it over his shoulder before emerging out of the closet. 

And he is met with good news, as Patrick is now fully clothed as well in the jeans and black sweater from the night before. His eyes are bleary, but he’s dressed and in good enough spirits, and both of those things merit some appreciation.

“The bathroom is all yours,” Remus affirms as he works to get the belt around his waist, looking down at the buckle to avoid the look he can feel Patrick giving him. “I’m just going to get the rest of my stuff together.”

Patrick sends him a coy smile and walks by Remus on his way to the bathroom, using the opportunity to give his arm a squeeze before shutting himself inside. Remus pushes a hand through his damp hair and lets out a sigh, wondering why this whole casual dating thing is so off-putting to him when it’s so par for the course to everyone else, and then shoves his guilt aside before moving out of the bedroom. 

He grabs his backpack off the dining table, glancing inside to ensure that his laptop is packed up, before moving to the kitchen to get some sort of lunch together. He has learned his lesson many times by this point in his life, and knows not to rely on whatever food options the courthouse would offer, not with his ridiculous food sensitivities. His fridge is full of options, and he sends an audible thank you to past Remus for thinking ahead before packing up a couple of hard-boiled eggs, a grilled chicken breast, and a container of hummus he’d made. He eyes his coffee machine with a coveting stare, but with the heaviest reluctance, decides he just doesn’t have time to brew any up right now. Sorry, baby.

It only takes another second to grab an ice-pack from the freezer before adding his lunch container to the contents of his backpack, and then he notices his wallet on the counter, grabs it, and pushes it into his back pocket — another silent prayer of thanks that he didn’t leave without it. He checks the time on his phone. It’s 7:15, and he needs to leave within the next five minutes. 

Before his mind can wistfully reflect on how, if this were any other morning of his life, he would still be asleep and would spend the first 30 minutes after his shower nursing a cup of coffee, Patrick emerges from the bathroom, looking fully awake now. His smile is shyer, but it’s still there, and Remus _forces_ himself to return it after he realizes that the quickest way out of this all would be the friendlier route. 

“So last night was fun…” Patrick trails off, and Remus honestly blocks out the rest from his mind. 

He zips up his backpack, cutting off whatever platitudes are coming out of the man’s mouth now that he can’t even bring himself to hear. “Yeah, it was really great,” he manages to say with a faltering excuse for a half smile, hoping it’s written off as a weird muscle spasm of the face, and feeling bad the entire way through. “I’d offer to drive you home on a normal day, but you know—”

“Jury duty, I know. And it’s no problem,” he says genially as he pulls out of his phone and holds it up for show. “My Uber ride is a minute away.”

And thank God for Uber, Remus thinks, pulling his backpack over his shoulder one second, and finding that Patrick is standing right in front of him the next. A hand lands on his lower back before Patrick goes in for a kiss, and Remus is an asshole — he _knows_ he is an asshole — but he can at least give the guy this, at least for a couple of moments. 

He pulls back after counting to five in his head and nods towards the door. Patrick leaves him with one last kiss and Remus does everything he can not to cough into the other man’s mouth. But ten seconds later, as Patrick is walking out the front door and Remus is locking it behind him, he feels like a rightful champion, a Rocky in his own right. 

It’s 7:20 when he pulls out of the garage and a rush of accomplishment surges through him due to the fact that he is right on schedule. It’s not a long ride to the courthouse, ten to fifteen minutes, but Remus is not sure about traffic at this time of the morning and wants to give himself ample time to figure out the parking situation — he normally cycles to work, so dealing with both are new variables in his typical routine. So he ramps up the 90s on 9 station on his satellite radio and goes to town on some grunge alt rock, sending out a special shoutout to Fastball and an exit to eternal summer slacking.

And the trip goes smoothly enough with Remus arriving at the parking garage across the courthouse at 7:37 and walking through the courthouse doors at 7:42, finding himself greeted with a long security line as soon as he enters the lobby. However, he’s still early — doesn’t need to check in until eight o’clock — and he pulls out his phone to pass the time in line. 

A text from Peter greets him, delivered only a couple of minutes earlier, _Good morning. Didn’t hear from you last night………… ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)_

And another, this time a choice gif of Samantha Jones, followed by one of Andy Samberg exclaiming that he just had sex.

 _Why are you like this?_ Remus sends. And then, because the sequence of texts is truly that revolting coming from his straight married best friend and he wants to avoid the topic altogether, _And no, called it a night pretty early. Nothing happened. Nice guy, but…_

 _Let me guess. Not very *interesting*?_ Peter sends back immediately.

_Right._

“Excuse me, sir. Sir?” Remus hears, looking up a beat too late, only registering the first part when he realizes the curt voice is aimed right at him. 

“Oh, sorry,” he scrambles as he now notes he is next in line — a line that has moved far quicker than he had expected. He moves quickly to keep the people behind him from waiting any longer than necessary, glancing at them with a look he hopes conveys apology as he swings off his backpack. A flurry of hot pink, clacking heels, and cleavage assaults his senses from his immediate left, and he reels, wondering for a moment if he’s in fact in the right place. But no, he is, and apparently that is simply some woman’s best courthouse attire. Scandal, indeed.

He makes quick work of unloading his laptop into a large tray, pushing it through the conveyor belt before placing his backpack in to follow right behind it, all while fighting the urge to peep at the other characters who are gracing the courthouse security line today. He empties his pockets, puts his wallet in a smaller tray, and edges toward the metal detector. 

The security gal is now deep in animated conversation with a coworker, so he stands idly in waiting for that to wrap itself up. A bit of time passes, and he hears an audible sigh punctuated by five loud clacks of a high heel against the linoleum floor from behind him. The coworker glances up at the display and nods in Remus’ direction. And it certainly wasn’t his heel giving them attitude, but Security Gal doesn’t seem to give a shit about that telepathic message, pinning her wrath on Remus nonetheless.

She waves him forward, and the look of annoyance on her face is truly next-level. Remus walks through the detector, and right as what sounds like medieval chainmail is dropped into a plastic tray from somewhere vaguely behind him, he hears a double beep. 

“Sir, can you step to the side please?” the imposing woman asks with Absolute Authority. He side-steps over in the direction that the woman is pointing, keeping an eye on the laptop that has just made it through the belt. 

“K,” he says, to himself mostly, as he watches the next two folks be ushered through the screening by her more jovial coworker without any issue at all.

“Go ahead and hold out your arms at shoulder height please, and widen your stance,” she asserts, her 5’1 frame next to his 6’3 likely an amusing sight to anyone with eyes. Except for the guy who is concentrating on pulling an alarmingly sharp studded belt back on, after having miraculously passed his array of visible piercings through without a single problem; he seems distracted.

Remus questions his luck but does as she orders, assuming the position of a starfish as she lifts her wand, starting at his feet and then moving up his legs. The detector beeps mildly on the trip upwards and Remus sneaks a glance to his right. The fellow is now affixing his chain wallet to one overburdened belt loop as four more people walk straight on through to collect their effects too.

“Sir, is this your bag?” Remus’ attention is pulled back around. More specifically, to the young man working the conveyor belt who is also holding Remus’ backpack up for display. 

“Yeah, that’s mine,” Remus answers, shifting his weight to head in that direction, only pausing his trajectory because a wiry old guy in a grateful dead t-shirt is walking himself through the detector at an actual snail’s pace and blocking his path. He throws out a ‘Hey whoops, sorry, brother,’ as he peers at Remus with an unfocused gaze, and honestly, no apologies needed, Remus knows we’re all doing the best we can here.

“ _Si_ _r,_ you need to stay still,” Security Gal throws at him as soon as he starts to move in the direction of his backpack, and he freezes for a moment before shifting back to starfish. She moves the wand over to his right leg, beeps remaining steady as her high ponytail sways to-and-fro with her movements, then up to his torso, and before long the wand is steadily rising high enough to be level with her own face. “Now, could you please crouch down for me?”

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t reach your shoulders and the wand didn’t find anything, so I need to pat you down,” she clarifies without shame, or even a hint of vague regret over asking a man to pose like a gargoyle in public when she could simply get on her tippy toes. Her vibrant green eyes sear into Remus’ own and burn right through his dignity along the way, assuring him that resistance is futile.

Two long, steady breaths. He rights his stance and bends his knees forward to lower down slowly, then obeys her new request to outstretch his arms for easier access to his neck and shoulders, and it’s then that he closes his eyes in an effort to dull this nightmare as she slaps him around for all to see.

“Wow, Francy, you really are cracking down on the riff-raff, aren’t you?” A new deep voice comes from behind Remus to chide the woman, and by extension his very being as well. And he’s here; Remus has officially arrived in hell.

“You didn’t,” the woman responsible for his descent into eternal damnation, allegedly named Francy, chimes with utter delight. A second passes and he feels no hands, and that’s all Remus needs to justify straightening up again and opening his eyes since she’s clearly not paying attention to him anymore.

“Oh but I did,” the voice behind him rings again ostentatiously. “An iced mocha, only two pumps, with almond milk and no whip,” he finishes, shaking the ice and popping the “p” for a sort of dramatic flair that simultaneously delights Francy and deadens Remus’ spirit even further.

Francy’s perfectly lacquered hand reaches for the Starbucks before the voice’s owner comes into view, and if the situation was not his favorite before, it’s suddenly exacerbated by oh, a thousand. The man is all legs and has come strutting forth in the most well-tailored three-piece suit that Remus has ever seen. His hair is practically black, a pleasant contrast to his fair skin, and he rights it with a quick nod of his head as he lifts a briefcase easily off the conveyor belt.

His jawline is all hard edges, and his eyes are such a soft blue that they should be dull, but instead, they’re strikingly inviting against the rest of his sharp features.

“Sir, I said you’re good to go,” Francy’s disinterested voice sounds off from somewhere far below in the direction of Remus’ shins, and he only has to wonder for half a second whether he had been caught staring because the man in the suit — an attorney, no doubt — is suppressing a roguish smile while his eyes-like-a-stormy-ocean-tragedy are set right back on Remus. And while the ice in Francy’s mocha rattles impatiently in her tiny hand and a child lets out a blood-curdling scream for his mom’s iPhone from somewhere off in the flaming bowels of the now-bustling courthouse, Remus comes to the conclusion that this guy can fuck right off. 

Francy turns her head to give the attorney her undivided attention now, and Remus wouldn’t straight-up interrupt a conversation on a normal day, but he woke up with a Patrick, an unforgivable alarm tone, and a jury summons this morning, and the flowery tone she’s using now is just honest to god testing him. He intercepts with a cough. “So what was it?” he puts out then, and their conversation comes to a halt.

“What?” Francy raises, her tone a decibel lower with him than when she had been speaking to the fucking Dread Pirate Roberts, Esquire, decked out in navy pinstripes.

“What set the metal detector off?”

She shrugs once. “I don’t know, maybe it was a glitch.” And then, because she suddenly just cannot be bothered with him, “Go on, you’re good.”

Remus blinks. A glitch. Simply stunning. “Great,” he says, only barely suppressing a comment about his renewed confidence in the judicial system as a whole. The attorney must pick up on his dry delivery, for his eyes dance with something that looks suspiciously like schadenfreude as he lifts his drink to his lips, and Remus turns to retrieve his backpack now while letting him know internally that he can fuck right off again.

“That’s mine,” he repeats to the young man at the head of the conveyor belt as he gathers his wallet and laptop from the trays. He reaches for the backpack that is set at the end of the belt next to his other belongings, but the man pulls it out of his reach. 

“Sir, I am going to need to search your bag. Something concerning came up in the scan,” he says, but he sounds like he’s not reveling in the task, and that’s at least something.

“Well of course it did,” Remus responds brightly, following the man a couple of steps further to the designated search area. Francy let’s out a loud, girlish laugh behind him and Remus checks his watch. 7:54. Her friend is hilarious too, apparently, and definitely not in any sort of rush.

“I need to be checked in for jury duty in less than six minutes,” Remus tries, exasperated, and he isn’t quite sure why he said it, for he has lost all hope of getting out of the security lobby within the next six years. 

“Can’t let you through until we take a closer look at what’s in your bag,” he says without expression. “Is there anything sharp that I should be aware of?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t leave anything in here like a pocket knife?” he follows up, beginning to unzip the backpack.

As an object that would constitute as sharp and thus would be captured in his previous answer, “No,” Remus sighs.

Billy, as his name tag reads, hums and his carefully gloved hands start picking out the contents and laying them one by one out on the table. His laptop charger, his keys, his lunch container, and if he weren’t in a hurry and he’d had coffee this morning, he’d have appreciated the delicate care and attention to detail, but right now, it’s just gratuitous. After reaching his hand inside the bag once more to feel around and finding it empty, he motions to the lunch pail. “I’m going to open this now.”

Three minutes until 8. “It’s not going to smell great.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There are hard-boiled eggs in there, but sure, go for it,” Remus says of it.

Without another word, Billy unzips the lunch container, an _ah ha_ escaping from his mouth as he reaches for the silver fork inside and holds it up victoriously. “Sir, you cannot bring this into the courthouse.”

“What?” Remus raises, confused as all hell. “Why not?”

“It could be used as a weapon.”

Quiet exasperation. “It’s a fork.”

“It has sharp points and stranger things have happened here,” Billy expounds, and Remus can now add spooked to his combination of emotions. “You’re going to need to throw it into the trash or take it back to your vehicle.”

Remus allows himself to disassociate for a brief moment, one sweet brief moment where he isn’t reflecting on the fact that Dante forgot about the tenth circle of hell which is clearly courthouse security. Another deep breath and he shoots Billy a nod, taking the fork, walking two steps, and dropping it into the trash can. “May I please go through now?” he pleas in defeat.

Billy charitably pushes Remus’ lunch and other scattered belongings back towards him, a pile of disarray that’s just a cherry on top of the last fifteen minutes. “You’re good to go.”

Remus overhears some loud comment about how people should really be more considerate about what they bring into public buildings, and he really truly wants to explode right then and there when he looks up and sees a woman aiming pursed lips and judgmental eyes at him. Instead he gets himself repacked in under ten seconds flat and turns in the direction of the elevator. He sneaks a peek at his watch and it’s 8 on the dot.

His jury summons had informed him to go to the third floor, and by one single stroke of luck, a nearly empty elevator opens just as he approaches, and he follows the crowd of other jurors into it. He’s crushed like a sardine, and although he typically prefers the stairs, it’s no matter, for he’s in a rush and at least he didn’t have to wait any. As the elevator doors slide shut, Remus shuts down his brain, taking one long exhale in an effort to reset his mood altogether. There’s chatter around him, and a light tapping sound, someone’s foot no doubt. Tapping, not unpleasantly though, almost to a rhythm...

 _But you gotta keep your head up, oh oh!_ _  
__And you can let your hair down, eh eh!_

His eyes snap open, betrayed by his own brain, and it’s just then that the elevator doors open up to greet him with a brand new scene.

The crowd files out, and the third floor is surprisingly organized in a way that speaks to Remus’ soul. He pulls his jury summons back out of his pocket and finds that he is to meet in section 162. There are digital screens attached to the ceiling, and he walks until he reaches the one naming his section and breathes a sigh of relief. He may be a couple of minutes late, but a crowd of people is forming right behind him, so at least he isn’t the only one. 

He looks around for the check-in area before pulling out the summons again. _A member of the courthouse staff will check you in at your designated section_ , it reads, and Remus takes a seat in one of the empty chairs. Shouldn’t be too much longer, he thinks to himself. He figures they’ll check him in and then it’s likely he will be sent on his way, as they always summon more people than necessary. Maybe he won’t even need to take time off if he makes it out of here quickly enough.

More people join the fray, a few he recognizes from the security line and some new faces altogether. A young couple meanders into his section, a woman with black hair and shocking blonde streaks attached to a man wearing a t-shirt that so charmingly reads _Duct Tape Can’t Fix Stupid, But It Can Muffle The Sound._ Her arms are draped around him as they walk in sync, both of them in some sort of daze, and when he finds two empty seats, she charitably forgoes her own and crawls up onto his lap before nuzzling her face into his bouquet of shitty neck tattoos. 

And that’s about as much people-watching as Remus needs to partake in for the time being. He debates pulling out his laptop to catch up on real work, but ultimately chooses to answer emails on his phone since that requires less concentration. After all, it’s already 8:12, and a courthouse employee should be coming around to check them in any minute now. 

But nobody comes. The section has completely filled up, Remus has answered seven emails, it is 8:52 and still nobody has showed up. He decides it best to turn on his vacation responder to inform his coworkers who reach out to him today that he’s tied up and will be slow to get back to them.

“It’s ridiculous that we have to be here,” a middle-aged woman on Remus’ left declares daringly and indignantly to someone she’s evidently befriended, and Remus can’t help but eavesdrop. “They act as if we don’t have lives, as though it’s so easy to get away for an entire day.” Remus has an urge to pipe up about the four month notice they received, and the multiple options to reschedule -- because although he isn’t too happy to be here, unearned indignation is higher on his List of Pet Peeves, and so is speaking just to hear one’s own voice. But he reminds himself that being pulled into a conversation about the misfortune of jury duty is a far greater punishment than simply hearing the viewpoint in passing.

“They _claim_ to pay you for your time too,” she goes on, more people chiming in with incensed agreement, and Remus sneaks another glimpse to find that she is absolutely glowing, “but last time all I got was a check for six dollars.” Remus wonders if she minds that this exact conversation plays itself out in this same building, every single day of the week. And then he laughs internally, because of course not.

A woman two seats down from her rolls her eyes at that, and Remus feels a tinge of kinship for a single brief moment before the conversation is interrupted by someone who Remus assumes to be the blessed court employee coming to set him free. 

“Section 162?” the man confirms and Remus sits up a little straighter. “Okay, here is what we are going to do. If this is your section, stay where you are and get your summons and your IDs out. I’m going to come around and check you all in one-by-one. There are 60 of you so it’s going to take a bit of time, but I’ll need you all to stick around until I am done, then I will be able to provide you with further instructions.”

And he can’t help but note that the process feels wildly inefficient. But they’re at least getting somewhere, and Remus praises the gods for that — the old gods _and_ the new. He sits forward a bit, enough to reach into his back pocket to pull out his wallet, but he feels his heart drop all the way back down to the lobby as soon as he flips it open. 

Patrick’s smiling face is looking back at him, shrunken to fit onto his ID that is slipped inside the front transparent pocket, letting Remus know that _sorry Loser, this is not actually your wallet._ He slams it shut and reaches instinctively for his backpack. There is no way that he had forgotten his wallet, and now that he thinks about it, didn’t he pack it into the side pocket the night before?

One problem is resolved as he immediately locates _his_ wallet in the small zipper compartment but now he’s got its clone to attend to, which its owner probably needs as soon as possible.

The court employee has begun the check in process, but there’s still enough people between him and Remus for him to pull out his phone. He swipes over to the very last screen where he’s sequestered the dating app they met on and finds their messages. 

_Hey,_ he writes, pausing for a second before giving his head a good shake and continuing with, _I accidentally grabbed your wallet this morning. I’m sure you’ll need it back soon. Let me know how I can get it to you._

He presses send with a sigh, something about the continued contact making him squirm. And then another rush of guilt because he really is an asshole and it’s his ambivalent brain that can’t seem to figure out if he wants to date people or not, nobody else’s. He checks for a response. There is none, so Patrick must not have noticed his wallet’s absence yet; it’s just a waiting game now, and he goes back to knocking out a couple more emails until the check in guy makes the rounds. It’s 9:28.

And things are looking brighter, because the whole process of checking in is as simple as it should be, with Remus handing over his ID and summons before being assigned a juror number — lucky number 29 — given a name tag, and then being instructed to stay on this floor until the loudspeaker announces which courtroom to head to. There is a tinge of disappointment over not being dismissed right away, but it’s only one morning out of his work day, he reminds himself. Christ, it really is nothing in the grand scheme of things.

A notification pings his phone at 9:48, none other than Patrick. _Oh damn, I didn’t even notice. Guess I was preoccupied this morning._ And then, _You’re at the courthouse downtown right?_

 _I am,_ Remus types back.

_I work downtown. Would love to meet for lunch if you can get away._

Remus leans back against his chair, and his head hits the wall behind him, but he doesn’t care. He groans, but only on the inside because god forbid he draw any further attention to himself here, and his brain begins assembling reasons why that just won’t work. 

_Can we play it by ear?_ He lobs in with full cowardice. _I don’t think I will be able to get away from here long._

Patrick wastes no time at all. _Absolutely :). Just shoot me a text when you have a break, I can meet you._

Remus sighs, dreaming about tomorrow when his day will be normal and productive with no unexpected surprises, when he’ll experience the glorious bliss of finally hitting send on the presentation that’s taken months for him and his team to prepare for the annual shareholder meeting. Meanwhile, the couple-in-a-single-chair is french-kissing and Remus cannot figure out if they met here, if the two of them somehow have jury duty at the same time, or if one of them just voluntarily tagged along for this horrible ride on the highway to hell. What he does know is that court is the weirdest aphrodisiac ever. His phone reads 9:55. 

Another five minutes, and the loudspeaker instructs the folks in Section 162 to make their way up to the fourth floor to courtroom 4D. The flock rises and moves haphazardly toward the elevators, and Remus heads in the direction of the stairwell that he spotted in the two hours it took to get checked in.

It doesn’t take long to find the courtroom, as the door is open and a man is standing at the entrance ushering people inside, instructing them to sit within the first rows in the gallery. It smells a little more like old glue in here. Remus shuffles along in the single file line and ends up in the third row, sandwiched between an elderly woman in a mango-colored shawl on his right and a boy who looks not a day over 13 — but who also must somehow be older than 18 given he was summoned for jury duty — on his left.

The fifth row is nearly filled up when the last straggler saunters inside — and, oh! A question has been answered, for it is one half of the couple from earlier, and she is magically able to walk on her own without being attached to her boyfriend, who evidently had nothing better to do than hang around so his girlfriend could dry-hump him in public during her off time. Incredible.

“Alright folks,” the man at the door calls out dryly, and like clockwork, every head surrounding Remus turns back in perfect unison. Every head, that is, except for Remus’, for he can hear just as well whether he is looking at the speaker or not. “Shouldn’t be much longer now. The attorneys will be in shortly, and they will give you a description of how the day is going to go, a very brief idea of the case you could potentially be deciding, and then they’ll start the selection process,” the man manifests before abruptly shutting the courtroom door.

“This is a criminal courtroom,” a young woman in the front row no older than 25 informs those around her with the ear-grating tone of someone who Knows All. “The fourth floor is reserved for criminal cases, so this will definitely be an exciting one,” she concludes with eyebrows raised, awaiting reactions.

“Are you familiar with the courthouse?” Some fool takes the bait. 

“I’m a law student actually, and I had an internship here last semester.”

“What kind of cases could we see in criminal court?” He raises.

“So criminal court is when the state is prosecuting a crime, for the _good_ of _society_ and the _pillars_ of _justice_ ,” Erin Brockavich starts importantly, and Remus has the sudden urge to dry heave, but diplomatic guy that he is, he keeps that at bay. “Contrast that with civil court where it’s two private parties trying to resolve a dispute between each other. So this case could be anything really... drunk driving, arsen, assault, battery,” she pauses and her eyebrows raise yet another inch higher in response her enraptured audience, “maybe even _murder._ ”

People react around her just as Remus imagines she was gunning for, in a chorus of _ahhs_ and one particularly high-pitched _oh my goodness!_ and he’s ticking off another reason why work beats out jury duty any day of the week.

“And another difference between criminal and civil is the standard of proof. Criminal court has the highest standard — ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ — because the defendant’s literal freedom is at stake,” she explains, pausing for a moment before waving her hand, “but the attorneys will explain that to the jury members they choose. They probably won’t pick me by the way, lawyers _hate_ law students on juries because we know about jury nullification.”

“What’s that?” Someone else pipes up. Remus’ eye twitches.

She swivels around with eagerness, curly brown hair like a dried out tumbleweed as she chases her very own spotlight. “It’s when jurors of a criminal trial believe the defendant is guilty, but choose to acquit them anyway because the law is unjust. It is a really big deal, a lot of attorneys bank on the jury not knowing about it,” she boasts. And then repeats, “ _Ju-ry null-if-i-ca-tion,_ ” enunciating each syllable as her devoted gatherers jot it down into their phones.

“Well that’s good to know!” the man behind her puts out, and that’s funny, because Remus was thinking just the opposite.

“I’d actually really love to be chosen,” the woman next to her admits with a bit of hesitance. “I know it might mean weeks at trial, and I think I’d be nervous about retaining all of the information—”

Erin B. assures her with the wisdom only a second-year law student with zero real-world experience could bestow, “Oh don’t worry about that, it’ll turn out _fine._ Actually—”

 _You are gonna turn out fine_ _  
__Oh, you turn out fine_ _  
__Fine, oh, you turn out fine_

He’s not quite as miffed at his brain for tuning into that garish earworm of a song again, since it saves him from having to listen to Erin B. jockeying for center stage. So he lets his mind run away with it as he checks the time for the thousandth time that day. 10:21. 

A sharp unexpected voice pulls him out of his meditation of sorts, and the clerk is entering the courtroom from the judge’s chambers, introducing herself as Lydia and giving off the air that she is ready to get this party started. A black suit and heels, coral lips, and a white chiffon blouse with her dark hair thrown up into a manicured bun, and the woman is all hustle. Remus is almost in love.

Jury selection instructions are the first order of business. She’s made this speech before, probably a million times if her speed and lack of enthusiasm say anything, and Remus is _here for it._ He doesn’t cling to her every word since the chances of him getting selected are so low, but he does catch on to some details. 

Six people will be chosen for the jury, which is a delightful piece of information for two reasons. First, this means that the chance Remus is actually selected is a mere ten percent. And second, even more thrilling, is the fact that twelve jurors are needed for a criminal trial. So, much to Erin’s disbelief, they are actually in civil law territory, and Remus is living for the look of surprise on her face as she slumps down in her seat, dejected. 

Lydia then asks the room to turn off all cell phones and communication devices. They all take a minute to do so, and although Remus is happy to turn off his phone, he cannot be bothered to dig out his laptop to power it down; it is just as harmless resting there in sleep mode. He notices everyone else dawdling around on their phones, probably just putting them in airplane mode, if that. 

She begins to give some general background on the case, and Remus learns from her that although it’s not going to be a riveting battery or arsen or murder trial, the case involves a colorful dispute between a townhome community and its homeowner’s association — or ‘HOA’, as Lydia informs them it will be referred to henceforth. It’s exactly what every little boy dreams of, he thinks, when they imagine going to jury duty to witness a real trial. Law and order in action, baby, HOAs and angry townhome owners. It should be a pretty quick and straightforward experience for those who are selected, though, he imagines, so at least there’s that.

Next she reads through some more basic rules, the more noteworthy are those instructing the group not to mingle with attorneys or other parties involved with the case. No accepting favors from lawyers or witnesses, and no doing favors for them. No discussing the case on social media, and not even with close family members. And shit, there goes Remus’ social life. 

Finally, she walks them through how the trial will be carried out, and then takes a long breath and Remus can sense that her job in this whole thing is nearly done. “We now come to the portion of the trial called voir dire examination,” she recites. “Voir dire is a french phrase that means ‘to speak the truth’. It is the one opportunity you will be given to converse with the attorneys. They have some basic information about you like name, age, and occupation, and they may ask you specifically a question.” She pauses and takes in a breath, looking up from her paper for the briefest of seconds before continuing forward once more. “I will remind you that the court reporter must take down everything that is said, so please answer out loud and not by nodding or shaking your head. And with that, I will grab the attorneys.”

The rhythmic sound of Lydia’s heels fills the room as she makes her way back to the door, and about 30 seconds later, four attorneys enter the courtroom in her place. They saunter up close, all smiles and likability, keeping up friendly chit chat as two of them take seats at separate tables in front of the judge’s empty bench and the other two position themselves in front of the gallery. 

“Good morning, everybody,” the female attorney standing to the left greets the group, and even Remus has to admit that her smile is dazzling. Her hair is a light blonde, and her eyes a sharp, royal blue — further accentuated by the navy suit and light blue blouse she wears.

“How are we all doing today?” The attorney on the right jumps in eagerly, clapping his hands in front of him. He has stylishly disheveled hair and thick rimmed glasses, and he’s speaking in an enthusiastic tone that doesn’t match the occasion of jury duty, at least not in Remus’ opinion. “What a beautiful opportunity you all have today. Participating in this country’s great legal process as jury members is not just a civic duty, it’s a _privilege_ , and I hope you all are taking a moment to really soak it in.”

Remus notices that about half of the group puffs up with pride at this, sitting up straighter along the way. A few, including the young woman who looks lost without her other half, appear to fall into a deep depression that can only be alleviated by contact with the outside world. Their blank ‘I’m not doing anything against the rules’ facial expressions are paired with fingers hustling across phone screens hidden from view as they text and web browse inconspicuously. They’re failing as far as Remus is concerned, but the attorney doesn’t seem to notice or care, so this behavior must be par for the course.

“And it’s an honor for us too,” he continues with an air of fulsomeness that only comes from someone Remus would identify as a total bullshitter, “to spend our day with outstanding citizens such as yourselves. All of us here, engaging in the rule of law, contributing in our own way to keep justice afloat in a world where not all wrongs can be righted, but at least some can,” he concludes breathlessly. And maybe the guy really does mean it, Remus thinks, as he actually appears to resonate with the words coming out of his mouth. And bullshitter or idiot, Remus cannot figure out which would be worse.

“He’s rather handsome isn’t he?” The lady wearing the mango-colored shawl nudges him with her elbow to whisper. And would you look at that, apparently he has made a friend. Remus tilts his head to the side as the man with the pristine suit and the not-so-pristine hair continues on about how it was his first summons to jury duty, just thirteen years ago, that led to the life-changing epiphany that he would like to grace the halls of justice as an attorney one day; and here he is now, a dream come true.

Perhaps he would be handsome if Remus had seen him working out at the gym, maybe, or sitting at a restaurant’s outdoor patio sipping on a glass of wine as he sends Remus a coy wave. But talking a bunch of fluff to schmooze up a group of potential jurors? Pffft. Not likely.

“Ladies and gentleman,” the female attorney starts again once he has finished, crisp and confident voice filling up the room. “My name is Kim McGill and my co-counsel and I,” she pauses to gesture at the other attorney sitting behind her, “will be representing Cascade Townhomes, the petitioner in this cause of action.”

“Well she seems like a bit of a bitch, doesn’t she?” Mango Shawl whispers to Remus again, and wow it’s incredible how quickly the male attorney’s charm took effect.

Remus snorts a laugh of surprise, causing a head or two to turn, but he’s righted his facial expression by then back to blankness. “Um... no?” Remus mutters sidelong, impressed by Kim’s efficiency and focus since those qualities seem to be _real_ rare around here in general and should be cherished in his opinion.

“And my name is Jim Potter,” the opposing attorney takes the opportunity to introduce himself warmly, “and we will be representing the respondent, or the defendant, in this case.” He pauses for a beat, sending a smile to the gallery before taking a couple of leisurely steps to his left, one hand raising into the air. “Now this is a breach of contract case, but at this juncture in the process, we don’t need to deep dive into the elements of the claim that you will be presented with if you are selected. What Kim and I are going to focus on for the next,” he pauses to check the watch on his left hand, “45 minutes, are the initial steps to select the most fair and unbiased jury possible to participate in this case.” 

Forty-five minutes. Remus’ phone is off, but the analog clock on the wall informs him that it’s 10:44. Apparently they’re all breaking for lunch at 11:30, no matter how late they started. Remus allows whatever hope he had of resuming his day before noon to dissolve into thin air while simultaneously really, really wishing he had prioritized caffeine this morning. 

“So what makes an unbiased juror?” Kim poses to the group, “We are looking for people who have no connection to the case and who have no preconceived opinions about the issue being litigated. If you have any former relationship with any party involved in the trial — be that an attorney, a witness, a judge, or the petitioner or the defendant — then you will likely be biased toward an outcome before the trial even begins, which would not be fair to the disputing parties. Similarly, If you have been on one side of a comparable dispute before, it is likely that you have bias.”

“To get us started,” Jim jumps in, and despite the fact that they represent opposing parties in a lawsuit, the two are quite sympatico, “has anybody in this room ever met or interacted with me, my co-counsel, or my opposing counsel before today?” 

The room is silent, and heads turn this way and that to see if anybody is going to make a move. After about ten seconds, a guy with a baseball cap in the second row raises his hand slowly. 

“Yes?” Kim acknowledges, squinting and bobbing her head to pick up the number on his nametag, “Juror number 7?”

“Uh yeah,” he points a finger at Jim, cryptically, leaning forward to really get a good look at him. “I recognize you.”

“Oh?” Jim perks up, and if he is nervous about where this is going to go, he hides it well. But this is Jim Potter, Esquire, not Remus Lupin, and the man looks thrilled for the opportunity to engage, if nothing else.

“Yeah,” he draws the word out for about eight entire seconds, sounding more and more sure as the syllable stretches on. “I work over at Besame on 11th Street, the restaurant. I think you came in the other day and I waited on you and your wife. Or, I mean, I assume she was your wife.”

A chorus of chuckles around the room. “That was my wife, and it was Friday date night without the toddler,” he confirms jovially, and then, as the attorney behind him is actively scribbling down some notes, he sends the guy a finger gun. “I hope I was a good tipper?”

He shrugs and answers without skipping a beat, “You were average.” The room bursts into laughter, Jim included, and Remus beams at the mere fact that he is occupying the same room as such a hero.

And after another round of the same question, no raised hands this time, Jim moves onto the next topic. “Has anybody in this room ever entered into a contract before?” He asks with gravity.

Eager hands rise into the air with such vigor that Remus would not be surprised if at least one shoulder is dislocated in the process. “I entered into a financing agreement when I bought my car a couple of months ago,” Juror 41 pronounces. “Does that count?”

And then, “What about my cell phone plan?”

And another feeble voice, “What about my will?”

And then, buried amongst the rest, Remus’ personal favorite, “What about my marriage?” He just _barely_ holds in a laugh, as he doesn’t know what else the attorneys expected in response to such a broad question.

Jim’s nose scrunches and he waves a theatrical hand to pause the onslaught of inquiries. “Let’s narrow this down, shall we?” he suggests. “How many of you have entered into a contractual relationship with a homeowners association specifically, or a similar organization regarding managing residencies?”

“Does a country club count?” Juror 14 pipes up in the very back.

“No,” Kim answers dully, without the sweet, understanding tone that Jim Potter was getting ready to offer.

There’s a rustling next to Remus. “Do you see what I mean,” Mango Shawl’s voice whispers into his ear.

“It was a stupid question though,” Remus mutters back, ethically compelled to give credit where credit is due. Mango Shawl tenses a bit and Remus wonders idley whether their friendship has soured already.

Kim’s voice fills the room again, gesturing broadly with her hands in emphasis, “Would everybody who is _currently_ in an arrangement with a _homeowners association_ , or has _previously been in one_ , please raise their hand.”

Remus, along with over half of the group, raises his hand, and the two attorneys at the tables take detailed notes as Kim calls out each juror by their respective number. She and Jim trade off a couple more questions — who has ever been in dispute with one, who has ever served on a board, etc. — and it’s about this time when Remus starts to mull over his best strategy going forward. 

If he comes out with a strong negative opinion about his HOA — which he doesn’t actually have, it’s more of a nuisance than anything — Jim would probably deem him too biased to proceed and send him home. Then again, he may be better off remaining quiet altogether and relying on the 10% chance of selection he calculated earlier, since Plan A could backfire if Kim makes a strong case to keep him on. He can tell she’s savvy and a winner, so he wouldn’t put it past her.

Remus becomes well acquainted with the analog clock on the wall as he considers raising his hand, and it probably qualifies as his best friend in the room now that Mango Shawl and he figured they were best to go their separate ways. Seven minutes and 49 seconds is spent on a conversation between Jim and Juror 42 about that one time Juror 42 got into a fist fight with his HOA rep after he was told that no, Arthur, you cannot put a chicken coup in your front yard, and please, no roosters allowed in the neighborhood at all. Another six minutes and 13 seconds is dedicated to Kim and Juror 2 talking in circles about Juror 2’s ‘damned’ HOA, and can they really limit the height of the flagpole in her front yard, Kim? And isn’t that her _right_ as an American citizen to fly a flag as high as she sees fit? And wow, time sure is crawling.

And just as he is getting mentally ready to go for the gold, to throw his own story into the mix, risks weighed and accepted, Jim finishes off the 12 minutes he spent cycling through his questions for those people who indicated they worked with contracts for a living, and voila, it’s time to break for lunch now.

Remus gives his head an abrupt shake when he hears that declaration, finding that the whole thing got him a bit drowsy, and reads the clock ahead. 11:32.

“We will reconvene at 1:30 to give you all a chance to have a long lunch; I know this process can get exhausting,” Jim puts in like the Good Guy that he is. “In the meantime, we will begin our first round of deliberations so that we can send a portion of you home nice and early. Not so bad, eh?” he adds with a chuckle, “getting a whole day off work to see the justice system at work for a few hours?” 

A few people laugh as they begin to stand up, some of them giving into full body stretches, and they slowly file out of their rows in the direction of the exit like sad cattle. “The courtrooms reserved for contract disputes must be full right now,” Erin Brockavich explains in a flurry to anyone within listening radius. “Because this is the floor for criminal cases, like I said earlier. But maybe they use the courtrooms for jury selections sometimes, I’ll have to ask the public defender I interned for.”

Remus’ row finally clears out, and he’s close to Erin when she pipes up again. “And you know… that Jim Potter?” she discloses, peeking to the right to make sure the attorneys have fully left the courtroom. “He’s one of the best attorneys in the city, went to Northwestern Law, editor of the law review, had opportunities _everywhere_ I heard. My friend interned for the big firm he works at this summer. She says he,” she pauses to let out a laugh, and by this point, even Remus wants to know the gossip, “he runs a vlog about card tricks, like magician stuff, and it’s _super_ popular.” 

Well, although a funny image for sure, that information is a behemoth of a letdown, and with that, Remus turns and walks out of the courtroom, grateful to have a free two hours to himself and intent on finding the nearest place to buy a coffee that does not require him leaving the actual courthouse. One time through security was scarring enough.

The fourth floor is sprawling, and Remus decides there _should_ be a kiosk around here somewhere where he can find some coffee. In his not-so-smooth attempt to herd Patrick out of his bed that morning with his extra time, he’s feeling the lack of caffeine majorly by now. 

It’s relatively empty and Remus sees vending machines in the distance, and he _thinks,_ he _hopes,_ that the outdated looking brown and silver contraption next to the soda machine is the real deal. And his heart skips an actual beat because, as he gets closer, the brown blob of color comes into better focus to reveal it’s actually a picture of coffee beans, and he is motherfucking golden, ponyboy. 

He’s practically vibrating in anticipation as he steps up to the old clunker of a machine to give the instructions a read, and he starts moving in double-time now. He reads that it only accepts quarters or dollar bills, and the product is undoubtedly going to be barely tolerable, but it’s coffee and he could kiss the blasted thing. 

He pulls out a five from the billfold, the smallest bill he has. He doesn’t even mind that he isn’t going to get any change back as he feeds it into the machine with the same delicate touch he only ever reserves for laying down the lattice crust on his mom’s famous Lupin Apple Pie at Christmas time. The action releases a paper cup out of the dispenser and his pulse quickens. He presses the button for basic coffee, and hallelujah, things are really looking up. It’s all rainbows and sunshine from here.

The machine sputters once. Twice. And then hot liquid is flowing into the cup, steam rising in all directions, and Remus gives a few shoulder bops in victory. Once the machine quiets down again, he gazes at the contents, and his soul takes a swan dive straight into the River Styx. It’s clear; well, mostly clear. Murky hot bean water is what it is, a far cry from coffee, and Remus isn’t sure if he did something wrong or if the machine is malfunctioning. He doesn’t see a sign anywhere, so he assumes the former.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pulling out another five dollar bill and quickly feeding it back into the machine — with the delicate touch he only ever reserves for shoveling horse shit. He presses the button again thrice in quick succession and takes a deep breath as it sputters for a second time, only vaguely registering the sound of the vending machine springing to life nearby.

“You’ve got to be _fucking_ kidding me,” he wants to scream into his hands as the liquid comes out like semi-translucent bayou swamp water again, but quells the passion to a decibel only audible to himself. He takes a long deep breath, counting up to 10 and then back down again, reminding himself that like all bullshit in life, this too shall pass.

 _Only rainbows after rain,_ _  
__The sun will always come agai—_ **_crunch._ **

Remus’ apparent new anthem of the day is interrupted by the sound, and he turns around to see— 

“You know, that machine really doesn’t work that well,” the raven-haired attorney from the security line informs him, reaching his hand into his mini bag of Fritos with his black briefcase tucked under his other arm. He pops another one into his mouth, just looking at him.

“You don’t say.”

His lips quirk up at one side. “The regular coffee option is constantly on the fritz, but the espresso drinks miraculously work 100 percent of the time,” he explains as he sends a nod in the direction of the machine. “The Americano is probably the next best thing, so you might as well give that option a go if it’s urgent.”

Remus coughs. “Thank you,” he says, pulling out his last five and feeding it into the machine. He presses the Americano button, and he swears that his heart actually palpitates as soon as he sees something resembling real coffee flowing into the cup. “Thank you,” he repeats in more of a melodic tone as he reaches for it, his other hand waving in the general vicinity of the machine as he turns back to the attorney. “Somebody should probably put a sign on it. That would be really helpful.”

The man cocks his head to the side, throwing another chip into his mouth as he stands in thought for a full five seconds. “It would be, wouldn’t it?” And then, “You should do it.”

“Me?” Remus laughs in disbelief as he takes his first smell of the coffee. It’s not impressive. “I was thinking somebody who works here.”

He shrugs. “We all know about the glitch, and most people who are here for court know that the coffee from the cafe on the tenth floor is far better than the shit that comes out of that machine.”

Remus’ face, which wasn’t exactly holding a smile, drops into a full frown. “There’s a cafe,” he repeats, looking miserably at the $15 decrepit cup of ass in his hand.

He hums in confirmation, and his eyes shine now like the cold blue glacier that sunk the mighty Titanic. “There is. And they have forks too,” he adds with a particularly clever smirk before he crunches another Frito to really punctuate that statement. 

Remus blinks, taking that in. He opens his mouth once to speak and then shuts it. Again. And then on the third time, “Well you sure are comfortable around here, aren’t you?”

He dusts off his left hand on his undeniably expensive suit while Remus holds back a cringe, then takes hold of the bag and briefcase with it. “Sirius Black,” he says as he extends his right hand, “I’m a prosecutor for the state.” 

Remus eyes it, then extends his own slowly. “Remus Lupin. I’m here for jury duty.”

“You don’t say?” he asks with faux surprise as his warm grip releases Remus. “You’re dressed like an attorney, but your happy demeanor was a dead give away,” he says with a minute quirk of an eyebrow, and everything happening in the general vicinity of his face is pretty unfair in Remus’ educated opinion. 

“Black!” a woman calls as she emerges from the courtroom door to the immediate right. “Let’s talk Madlem, I want to get it squared away before lunch.”

“Madlem,” Sirius takes a moment to recall, “felony petty theft from the small business over in lower downtown?” And that must be it because next he offers, “Petty theft with a prior.”

She isn’t happy with that. “Misdemeanor shoplift,” she counters.

He laughs. “Routine shoplifter picked up yet again for felony theft _over_ a grand? Threats of violence and a potential assault charge after the owner caught her in the act? My offer is generous.”

The woman huffs. “Meet me halfway here, Black.”

“Petty with a prior,” he singsongs.

“How about this,” she scrambles, and it is clear who has the upperhand here, “I plead her to the sheets and you give me a continued sentence. She gets six months — eight if you want it _—_ then you file for dismissal.” When he just stands there, waiting, she tacks on, “Come on is this really how you want to spend your time, Black?”

And as his smile grows wider at that challenge, the defense attorney balks a bit. He takes a sharp intake of breath and counters, “Well if you want to put it up to Judge Sanchez, I’m sure he’ll be delighted to offer a harsher sentence — you know how he feels about repeat offenders. And you also know I love a good trial, so I’m personally not going to complain about it. Your client on the other hand…”

“What makes you think he’ll deal out a harsher sentence?” she scoffs. “What do you have, a crystal ball or something?”

“No,” he drawls, smile growing ever wider, “but I do have a crystal brain, and I have seen this play out before.”

A crystal brain, Remus tuts, and what a pretentious claim to make. And yet, he finds that against his will it’s enhanced the man’s attractiveness by tenfold. And fuck that, he decides pointedly, as he pulls himself out of the trance he had fallen into while watching this interaction.

“Petty with a prior,” Prosecutor Sirius repeats with as much spirit as the first time, and Remus dumps the full cup of ‘coffee’ into the trash can without a care.

“Hey Remus,” Sirius calls after Remus has turned to walk toward the elevator, cutting off the defense attorney as she begins to cave into his offer, as Remus is sure he expected her to the entire time. 

He stops, then pivots in place. “Yes?” he asks.

Sirius nods at him. “Keep your head up, yeah?”

A cold chill runs through Remus’ veins. “What,” he demands. 

“Today. You’ve just gotta keep your head up,” he reiterates.

 _Oh, oh!_ _  
__And you can let your hair down, eh eh!_

And that’s it. Remus is, without a doubt, now descending below Hades and straight into the underworld beneath that is reserved for the most helpless souls; he thinks it’s called Tarturus. Or at the very least he is on a hidden camera show, and he frankly isn’t sure which is worse. His neck tilts to push his head forward a bit as his wide, disbelieving eyes take Sirius in, and the man’s face freezes in response, eyebrows raised in an expression of apprehension. “Why would you say that?” 

“Jury duty?” Sirius remarks cautiously, as if he’s the one missing something now. “It’s tedious, but it’ll pass. And hey, they probably won’t even pick you, right?”

Remus blinks, and so does the defense attorney as her eyes shift between the two men, one corner of this triangle of shared bemusement now. It’s a reasonable thing to say, but Remus can only handle so much by this point, and the coincidence of those words sounding a lot like the lyrics that have been weaseling their way into his frontal cortex is officially Too Much and he can’t cope.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, thanks.”

Sirius gives him one last suspicious glance over before turning his attention back to his opposing counsel. They seem to move onto a new case now — something about selling drugs to minors — and Remus strides away, mysteriously feeling it easier to breathe the further away he gets.


	2. Day 1, Part II

Remus follows the bright fluorescent lights and uninspiring brown tile in the direction of the elevator, thinking it a dreary combination just right for a courthouse. He rounds the corner but is thwarted once again by a crowd of people lined up waiting; despite having burned ten minutes at the vending machine, his same group of juror comrades are still stuck on the fourth floor. 

“One of the elevators is out,” an older man mutters to Remus when he sidles up. He nods back with gratitude for the intel. Remus thinks he recognizes him as the one who asked about his will.

“Two are still working?” he asks, eyes focusing past the man now to notice that the couple has been reunited. Given that one of his hands has dropped from where they were just wrapped around her waist to give her ass a nice conspicuous squeeze, it must have been a rough 45 minutes for both of them.

“Apparently, but, you wouldn’t know it,” the man says, flipping his hand in the air in a gesture that lets Remus know just how inefficiently the elevators are running. That’s all he needs to hear before deciding to take the stairs. And that’s all fine and dandy, he’s up for the exercise anyway. 

“Good luck,” Remus says quietly and heads in that direction. He pulls the heavy door to the staircase open and is greeted with a rush of heat. No air conditioning in the stairwell apparently, but he’ll survive, it’s not that many flights to manage. He sets his backpack on the ground to rid himself of his outer layer and pack it inside, logging that it had been unnecessary to bring it along in the first place since nobody’s exactly dressed to impress, which has been duly noted for future jury summons.

As he starts to climb, he quickly realizes how high the ceilings of each floor must be given the insane number of steps he’s scaling with each staircase, and the higher he goes, the exponentially hotter and more humid it seems to become. He fears he’s made a huge mistake. 

He checks his phone. 11:51.

By the eighth flight, due to exertion paired with an eight degree jump in temperature since he entered the stairwell, he’s half expecting to discover cavorting demons within dancing flames when he finally makes it to his destination. 

But after a few minutes that felt longer than they were and a handful of colorful curses later, the door to the cafe floor is in sight. There are small and unfortunate pools of sweat showing through the armpits of his button-up shirt now, and he runs a hand through his dark blond waves to detach them from his forehead. He pushes the door open, his breath heavy like he’d just finished a 10 mile run instead of a mere seven flights of stairs, but the sirens’ call of decent coffee and a plastic fork beckons him on, and he has to believe that it’s all going to be worth it. 

“Oh, hey counselor,” a chipper voice calls out, and he glances over as one very put together Sirius Black struts easily out of an empty elevator in the general direction of Remus’ dampened body and spirit. The picture of perfection, as it were; meanwhile Remus briefly thanks the universe that at least he didn’t forget to put on deodorant this morning. 

Remus isn’t sure who he is talking to. He looks right. He looks left. Behind him. But there is nobody else. “Huh?”

“You scrapped the blazer,” Sirius offers in response. And right, Remus is overdressed. Hilarious.

“I did,” Remus affirms without feeling as he shuffles past Sirius and straight ahead into the cafe. The sound of footsteps behind him signals that the other man isn’t far behind. 

The cafe is crowded, but it’s approaching noon so nothing about that is surprising. There are a few empty tables and Remus eyes a secluded one in the back corner that, paired with his great set of noise-canceling earbuds, looks like absolute paradise. But first things first. He steps up to the end of the line, counting about a dozen people ahead of him. 

“Long day?” the familiar voice behind him prods, and when Remus turns to look at him, he finds that Sirius is grinning in a way that reminds him of somebody who is willingly and knowingly poking a bear. But he’s actually grateful for the bait, and he takes it.

“Is everything in this building somehow optimized for inefficiency?” Remus has got to know.

“Whatever do you mean?” Sirius chimes back.

Remus huffs out a laugh, and oh boy, here it comes. “From the moment that I stepped inside this courthouse, it’s like schedules and time as a general concept flew right out the window. I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone. The summons say clearly to ‘please’ be checked in by 8am, yet apparently it’s really in the best interest of justice for us to sit around for an hour before anyone even acknowledges us, and then tack on another hour before we are even assigned into a courtroom,” Remus rants, on a roll now, and the laugh pulled out of Sirius’ mouth does nothing but spur him on further. “I mean, it’s fine, right? There’s only a docket full of other cases that need to be litigated, the court system is overrun as it is, but what’s another two hours of nothing?” 

“I can understand that frustration,” Sirius says of it, scrunching his nose briefly.

“But, get this,” Remus continues with the spirit in him, “the jury selection didn’t even start once we got to our courtroom.”

“No?” 

Remus shoots him a look. “ _No._ Another 30 minutes for the attorneys to show up, some really smarmy show, but I get it, they have to be likable to the jury and it’s a performance from the very beginning. The problem is, we built up to that moment for a solid two and a half hours, not counting the time it took to commute to the courthouse, and how much time do the attorneys spend with us? Forty-five minutes,” he lets the mirth drip out of his mouth, pausing briefly for some effect before getting to the punchline. “So of course we have to come back after lunch.”

The look on Sirius’ face lets Remus know that yes, he is listening, and there is some sympathy in there too — which is generous, he realizes, for what a petty little shit he’s being. But it has been a day, and it’s not even halfway over yet, and he still doesn’t know if he’s going to be picked for the case. And then Sirius nods to the line in front of them, and Remus realizes that it has moved forward during his little performance. He takes a few steps and notes there are only about five people ahead of him now. 

“And another thing…” Remus starts.

“Please, I’m learning a lot here.”

“A _two hour_ break for lunch? After less than a measly hour of interacting with us?” Remus sighs, a sad sigh, the sound of true defeat. “Please, for the love of all things holy, keep me off of this jury because I cannot imagine how slowly a trial would crawl by at this rate. If any part of my company conducted itself like that, we’d be bankrupt in an hour. Customers would riot, deals would crumble, it would be mayhem,” he rants on, even his hands getting involved in the display now, flying out to the right, to the left, and everywhere in between. “And to think, I’m talking about a company that at its core runs a search engine; people’s _livelihoods and freedom_ are at stake here, it’s frightening.”

Sirius hums at the remark, and it suddenly dawns on Remus that he has just spent the last three minutes shitting all over the system that the man works for. A long pause. “Sorry,” he mumbles with another errant wave of his hand. “I know, I’m an asshole.”

“I mean, it’s a problem, I won’t deny you that,” he acknowledges reasonably, tilting his hip to the left a bit and speaking with an evenness that gives Remus the sudden urge to walk the plank out of shame over his comparatively shitty temperament. “It sounds like you are having an exceptionally bad experience, though. It certainly wouldn’t go like that in my courtroom,” he establishes with understated confidence, moving on a beat later to ask, “Did you get assigned an interesting case at least?”

Remus gives an emphatic hum at that. “It’s about an HOA,” he answers with exaggerated brightness, and he’s got to admit — he doesn’t particularly _like_ the guy, but he does feel a sense of accomplishment when his eyes shine with a whole new luminosity. 

“Jim Potter’s case then,” Sirius names it.

“Oh, you know him,” Remus supplies, taking a step forward in line.

“Went to the same law school,” Sirius carries on, following him. “I was a year ahead, and he was pretty much my successor in every activity I participated in. My little protege.”

“Oh. He’s quite the charmer isn’t he?” Remus mentions, biting his tongue to keep from putting out some comment about how he must have learned how to bullshit from the best. Instead he goes with, “The woman next to me was quite taken with him.”

Sirius laughs through his nose. “I’ll be sure to pass that onto him, he’ll be thrilled.”

And then Remus laughs, because he remembers. “One of the jurors recognized him; waited on him and his wife at a restaurant. Apparently your friend is an average tipper.”

And if Sirius was happy before, he is positively beaming now, like a young Leonardo DiCaprio who’s just been told he won a ticket to board the maiden voyage of the world’s most opulent cruise ship. “Remus, thank you for that piece of information. Truly,” he says. “And by the way, you’re next in line now,” he nods up front again, and Remus lets out an _oh_ before quickly closing the distance up to the counter to speak with the woman behind it. 

“Hi,” Remus says, grabbing a water bottle from the cold shelf to his right and setting it on the counter. “I’ll grab this, and can I get a coffee?” Remus asks as he pulls out his wallet and fishes out his debit card.

“That’ll be four dollars and 50 cents,” she drones, handing an empty paper coffee cup over to Remus while she completes the transaction with her free hand. “Coffee is over to the left by the soda machine, self-serve.”

Remus nods, putting his card away, and takes a step to the left as he hears Sirius greet the woman warmly — Deborah is her name — paired with something about her being a sight for sore eyes, and she laughs vibrantly, abruptly turning from robot to teenage girl. But Remus has just remembered something and interrupts their budding conversation to ask, “Sorry, could I have a plastic fork as well please?”

“Also by the soda machine,” she instructs, and every bit of her pleasant tone was suspended just for him. 

He nods and moves away again, heading to fill up his coffee first while they resume their conversation. He sidles up to the much more modern looking set-up and experiences victory in itself when the coffee comes out steaming and richly colored. It smells far better than the Americano vending machine blend, and oh, even if everything else in the day goes wrong, at least he has this. At least he has _this._

He lets out a tired but grateful sigh as his eyes scan the bar area for the plastic utensils and he takes his first glorious sip. His other arm reaches forward when he sees a set of spoons, but he is thwarted once again when he finds that the slot for forks next to it is totally empty. 

“So then I told her, Rebecca, I know this is your wedding but that behavior is simply not going to fly around me,” Deborah expounds to an enraptured Sirius, whose forearms are set on the counter as he leans forward in interest. “I told my sister when she was a toddler, ‘you cannot raise her to think she’s just some princess. Otherwise the real world is going to be a slap in the face, and a hard one at that.’”

“And I imagine that this extravagant wedding isn’t helping her in that respect,” Sirius levels with her, to which she gives a lively _mhm_ in absolute agreement. “Although I can’t deny that I’m dying to see this wedding dress. Maybe I’m old fashioned—”

“Sweetie, you are nothing of the sort,” Deborah says of it with a wave of her hand.

“—but _fifteen thousand dollars_ for a wedding dress?” he puts out with disbelief. “That’s what I call a down-payment on a house. A car. A college education.” 

“Now don’t ever mention to Rebecca or her mother that I said this,” she starts, to which Sirius immediately quells her fears with an immediate _of course not,_ “but I think she might be going through with this more for the wedding itself more than the actual marriage.”

“You’re out of forks,” Remus breaks in dryly.

She turns slowly to Remus before reaching beneath her to pull out a single plastic fork, which she then lays on the counter and pushes toward him wordlessly. If anyone had asked Remus before today whether he thought he was a likable person, he would have given a fairly confident yes. However, after creating so many enemies in the course of four hours at the courthouse, he can be sure of nothing anymore.

He grabs the fork, catching some comment under her breath about the attitude on some people, but he ultimately came out of that interaction unscathed _and_ with a fork, so he deems it a positive one on the whole. And things continue to look up because the isolated table he had spotted while in line is still open, and he makes a beeline for it, setting his backpack on the ground and taking a seat. 

The table is large enough to accommodate Remus’ lunch and his laptop, and after popping in his noise-canceling earbuds, he flips it open and types in his password. As the screen boots up, he powers his phone back on, places it on the table, and then he sets out the food he had packed this morning before finally pulling up his slide deck to review. And as odd as the day has been — such an unlikely combination of hectic yet dragging — he finds it easy to zone into this world of his, but ultimately that’s not too surprising, given how much he actually enjoys his work and what an absolute refuge it is from his current surroundings. 

He’s long done with his coffee, halfway through the chicken breast and hummus, and he has started proofreading a slide with the executive team biographies when he sees the chair slide out from over the top of his laptop screen. A moment later sees Sirius Black sitting across from him. He is eye level now, just setting an apple on the table and starting to remove the sticker holding the wrapper of his sandwich in place as he looks at Remus expectantly. And as much as Remus wants to ignore him, they’ve already made eye contact, and it would certainly be weird not to at least acknowledge him. 

Remus removes one earbud. 

Sirius leans forward, appraising the setup in front of him. “Hard boiled eggs, huh?” he nods to the untouched portion of Remus’ lunch. “You make those yourself?”

He blinks, then takes another bite of chicken before moving to slide that earbud right back in. 

“Are you working?” Sirius tries again, splaying a vague hand in Remus’ general direction. 

“That was certainly the plan,” Remus puts out, abandoning the earbud at this point.

Sirius hums. “What do you do?” he asks simply, then takes a bite.

Remus clears his throat. “I uh,” he offers, “head up a PR team for a tech company.”

The other man’s eyebrows raise, and Remus cannot keep from noticing that he is stifling a smile before he shoves another bite of sandwich into his mouth. 

“What,” Remus checks.

His eyes lift upwards thoughtfully as he chews, then swallows. “Public relations…” he starts.

“Yes,” Remus says curiously as his eyes narrow.

He opens his mouth, clicking his tongue once before shutting it. His lips part again, and this time he articulates, “It’s just… well, not what I would have guessed for you.”

Remus stares. Ten seconds tick right on by. Sirius takes another bite. Twenty seconds. And still Remus stares. 

“When I think of PR,” Sirius finally elaborates with a measured tone, and paired with the grin slowly unfolding along with it, Remus surely doesn’t like where this is going, “I think of calmness and poise and tact… somebody who brings a diplomatic attitude to every situation.” Pause. “What I don’t think of is everything that I just witnessed with poor Deborah and the forks over yonder,” he barrels on with a nod to the counter. “Not to mention Francy at security,” he adds, and a beat later, starts on his next bite.

With that, Remus shuts his laptop, and his hazel eyes train in on Sirius’ electric grays — and, my, does the ocean breath salty, because not even those gorgeous nautical orbs can quell his annoyance this time. “Well you’ve sure got this place dicked don’t you?”

Sirius coughs in surprise as he makes a valiant effort not to choke. He is successful, and after a couple more seconds, swallows. “Excuse me?”

“Bringing coffee to the security guard, striking deals with defense attorneys because you clearly hold the upper hand, getting an invite to Deborah at the cafe’s cousin’s wedding—”

“Niece. It’s her niece,” Sirius intercepts.

Remus throws his hands up and one lands on his coffee. “You’ve got it dicked,” he repeats, swirling it around. “Did you even have to be in court today?”

And a cool smile appears, a calmness that is eerie and full of dormant energy like placid open water after a storm. “I sent out five separate requests for discovery before the courthouse opened,” he starts in a no-nonsense tone that Remus hasn’t heard from him before. “Then I reached six deals before calendar call began, so I think it’s safe to say the judge was very appreciative of that. And all of that was after my 5am run this morning, but thank you for the concern,” he finishes. Not once does his steady eye contact waver, and it occurs to him that the upper hand he’d seen with the defense attorney earlier is playing out again right in front of him.

Remus feels warmth spread across his face, not exactly proud of his little outburst and unsure what to do about it now. “Well…” he starts, and at least it’s something, “sorry about that. Like I said in line,” he pauses to point to himself, “asshole right here. At least for today.”

And apparently that’s really all it takes, for the lighter demeanor that Remus has come to expect from the other man rekindles, led by a smile that could only belong to somebody who sold their soul to the devil. “I’ve noticed,” he supplies.

Remus snorts in response, and he uses his fork to start cutting his hard-boiled eggs into smaller pieces. Then, in an effort to make amends, “Do you like your job?”

“I love it,” he answers without skipping a beat. “It’s exactly what I went to law school for.”

“What? Schmoozing around a courthouse all day?” Remus jokes, adding a smile in there to communicate that the joke is at his own expense. And it must land pretty well, for Sirius barks out a laugh as soon as he hears it. 

“I love being in command of a courtroom, and it may sound completely corny,” he adds in as an aside, and something about it is more endearing than Remus would like to admit, “but I love being a mechanism for justice. I love the law, and I love fighting for it,” he declares without an ounce of hesitation, but then tacks on a beat later, giving Remus a pointed look, “even when it moves inefficiently. Because believe me, it grinds on me too.”

Remus nods, raising the fork to his lips and pausing. “You must see some crazy shit,” he offers.

An exaggerated hum. “The craziest” he affirms, and Remus has got to say, he’s curious as hell.

He can’t resist, “What’s the most intense case you’ve ever worked on?”

Sirius takes a long breath, appearing to be deep in thought for a good ten seconds, because after a bit, Remus receives his answer. “A meth cook,” he starts, his face really illustrating the gravity of the case, and Remus needs to know more. “Came out of nowhere one day; incredibly high quality product. We knew about it for a good while before we caught him. I can’t tell you how many people I prosecuted for dealing it — guys who had been pretty solid before, at the very least on good behavior, but couldn’t resist making cash off of this new stuff, risks be damned.”

This is a whole new world to Remus. “Wow, what happened?” he asks.

“It got out of control for the cook, as is typical for anyone involved in the drug trade,” Sirius explains with an easy wave of his hand, as though this is all just par for the course; and for him, it probably is. “You can’t trust anybody, people will eventually get caught, and many of the small-timers will talk to get a relaxed sentence,” he explains with such animation that Remus is hypnotized.

“Wait,” Remus chimes in, “so what did that mean for the cook?”

“Well he went from being a meth cook — which brings on a barrage of drug-trafficking charges on its own — to racking up charges for murder, solicitation, breaking and entering, witness tampering, destruction of evidence… the list goes on and on. We had to get the feds involved.”

“What the fuck,” Remus announces, elongating the vowel.

“Yeah, it was pretty wild when you consider how it all started,” he offers laconically, and only after Remus widens his eyes and shakes his head practically begging for Sirius to continue does he expound on that. “He was a normal guy before he started cooking. Married with a teenager and baby on the way. He was a high school chemistry teacher, but once he got diagnosed with stage three lung cancer, he needed to find a way to pay for his treatment—”

“Ohhh, fuck off,” Remus laments through some emotion straddling amusement and exasperation. And Sirius is on cloud nine, if his amused gape is any indication, for that charade really did last longer than it should have in hindsight. 

“I wondered what detail would finally give it away,” Sirius puts out with laughter in his eyes. “Next I was going to start in on his ties with the regional fast food chicken joint.”

“I finally got there” Remus supplies, only pulled away from eye contact with Sirius by the vibration of his phone on the table. He glances down for a second and his heart drops as he sees the very recognizable notification from the dating app. It’s a message from Patrick. When he glances back up, Sirius is looking at his phone as well, and Remus wonders with some embarrassment if he recognizes the logo attached to the message. 

“But family court is the real zoo,” Sirius mercifully moves right on. “Stay out of there as though your life depends on it.”

Remus laughs, turning his phone over inconspicuously, and really that does sound like his greatest nightmare. “Are you speaking from professional experience or personal experience?”

Sirius pops the last bite of sandwich into his mouth and shoots him a cool smile after he swallows. He lifts up his left wrist and gives his watch a quick look. “Well would you look at the time!” he expresses with faux surprise. “Not all of us get two hour lunches you know,” he tacks on as he wads the wrapper in his hand, pushes the chair away from the table, and stands up. 

“It really is a heinous amount of time.”

Sirius hums, not contesting it. “Imagine being on the other end of things, though. Like the people waiting for a ruling. When you think of it that way, a day or two here really isn’t all that terrible,” he poses, pushing the chair in now with his hip. “And hey, you can even find a couple ways to make it fun,” he muses with a lift of his eyebrows, and Remus must be seeing things because something about it looks like a challenge. “See you around, Remus,” he concludes, taking the uneaten apple in his other hand, and Remus gives him a wave as he turns to leave the cafe. 

Once he’s out of sight, Remus looks about the room to notice it’s clearing out in general, the line now only populated with a couple of people and a few stragglers finishing up lunch at their tables. His phone buzzes again and grabs his attention; he’s only now remembering that Patrick had reached out to him earlier, and finds a second message from him now.

_Any word on lunch?_ reads the first one, and then a couple of minutes later, _Did you get dismissed yet?_

_Not dismissed,_ Remus types out, _and I don’t expect I will be until the end of the day._ He stops himself from elaborating more because, well, there is only one reason to text Patrick right now and he certainly doesn’t want to lead him on any further, and hits backspace on that. _Sorry, but I don’t have time for lunch. Can you still stop by the courthouse?_

_I can be there by 1:15._

_That’s perfect, I need to be back upstairs by 1:20,_ Remus explains — partially because he likes to be early and partially because that limits potential interaction to five minutes. _Let me know when you’re close and I’ll head down to the lobby._

Patrick sends back a thumbs up and Remus flips the screen of his laptop open again, feeling a little on-edge about the situation as a whole. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t enjoy putting a guy off the day after sleeping with him, but what can he do now except see it through? He makes a valiant attempt to focus on fixing up some formatting issues on the slide detailing the four proposals up for vote, but that only lasts about three whole minutes until he slams it shut again and picks up his phone. 

_So I lied,_ he types, letting his finger hover over the send button. Does he really want to have this conversation? He doesn’t, but he thinks he needs it. 

Peter texts back immediately, _What?_

Remus hesitates again, but who better to talk to about this than his best friend. _You were right. I did sleep with that guy last night._

Three straight-faced emojis _. And you covered it up so easily, Judas._ And then, _Sooo what’s the problem?_

Remus holds off from a comment about Peter’s reaction being overly dramatic, as Remus’ sin was not harsh enough to warrant a biblical reference in his opinion, but his time is more well spent explaining the situation about Patrick. 

_I’m an asshole, aren’t I?_

_I don’t know about that…_ Peter allows, and Remus has to admit that’s nice to hear, even if it’s not true. _Another clinger?_

_Well... something is wrong with me._

_Probably,_ Peter puts out mercilessly. _What’d he do?_

_It didn’t get off to the best start when he didn’t match his picture :)._

_Wut._

_I don’t get it,_ Remus types, feeling his face contort into an expression that matches the sentiment he has just typed out. _He’s a decent looking guy, why use somebody else’s pictures?_

_WHY?? I’ll never understand it. Was it at least close?_

Remus thinks about it for half a second. _Maybe if I had been drunk._

Peter is typing for a while. Remus spends a solid twenty seconds staring at the three dots moving on the screen. They disappear. And then, _But you slept with him anyway?_

And that’s the question Remus has been dreading, because even he wonders how he got there. The answer wasn’t something he liked to reflect on, but now he’d dragged Pete into this and he owes him something. _I was a hard pass at first considering the picture situation, but honestly, he was actually pretty good looking and we got along decently. It was all surface level and fine, and then he came onto me, and I’m only human, you know..._

Then, when Peter doesn’t respond right away, he expounds with, _You know how fucking crazy you get when you’re away from Mary for one single week. It had been months for me and I wasn’t in any place to turn it down._

An immediate response. _You’re a mess,_ the text reads like a crucifixion. 

And a huff. _Guilty!_ Remus shoots back to him, feeling the influence of the courthouse in more ways than one.

_But I totally get it. Hence why I’m encouraging you to meet people,_ the next message reads, followed quickly with an emoji of a leg and a heart symbol, followed by another text, _That’s me kicking you, but encouragingly, because I love you._

_Nice legs._ Remus types back, exhaling a laugh through his nose, fingers moving rapidly as he continues with, _Thanks. And that makes three, I’ve met three different guys on the app so you need to get off my ass about it now. That was the deal._

_Yup, I know,_ it reads, and Remus can hear the sigh of defeat through the words. _I really thought you’d like getting back out there. I thought it would help after four years._

His head gives a nod that nobody can see, but he needs it for himself all the same. _I get it, but that style of dating is not for me. It’s never going to be. I’d rather be single than try to force myself into it._

_Yeah. I mean, at least you got laid?_ And two seconds later, _Right?_

Remus laughs in something like concession, because that fact in itself was a positive, yes. But it wasn’t worth everything that came along with it. _Sure, Pete._

_So what now? Is he still messaging you?_

_I grabbed his wallet by mistake this morning :)))))),_ Remus admits, letting out a sigh of regret as he continues on, still not over the urge to punch himself in the face for this colossal blunder. 

Peter gets an apt message in before he can finish _, NOOO! You utter fool._

Remus moves past it. _So now he is going to meet me at the courthouse to pick it up._

_Doesn’t sound THAT bad,_ Peter offers, and Remus reminds himself that he does have a tendency to overreact when things don’t go as planned. _And you don’t even have to go anywhere. Just suck it up and be nice, and then you’re home free._

Remus looks up at the ceiling and he lets out a big sigh, reaching a hand around the back of his neck to tug at his hair as he mulls over the texts. All in all, it _really_ isn’t a big deal. It’s not ideal, sure, but for Christ’s sake, Remus can handle a little more discomfort today for the sake of a better tomorrow. Just another brick in the wall. 

His phone vibrates with another text. _Hey_ _I’ve got a meeting at 1 that I need to prep for. Let me know how it goes._

_Yep, thanks man,_ Remus shoots back quickly. He checks the time. 12:55.

And the little pep talk from his best friend gives him enough peace of mind to respond to another two work emails before he sees that nearly fifteen minutes have already passed and it’s about time to meet with Patrick downstairs. 

He takes a moment to fish out Patrick’s wallet before repacking his stuff, giving the ID inside a quick double-check to make sure he’s got the right one. He throws his coffee cup away, thinking he could really use another, then pulls his phone back out of his pocket.

_Close?_ he shoots a message to Patrick as he swings his backpack over his arm and moves out of the cafe in the direction of the elevator. It’s 1:11. 

He presses the down button for the elevator and his phone vibrates in his hand with Patrick’s response. _Running five to ten minutes late,_ it reads, and that is certainly not the response that Remus was gunning for. _I know you have to be back inside around then, just tell me which floor you’re on and I’ll find you._

That’s just rich considering there are few things that Remus hates more in that world than being late. And he knows that they won’t start on time, he logically knows that… and yet, what if they do this time? What if they do and he has to drag his ass into the full courtroom after Jim Potter has begun his riveting soliloquy about the nobility of justice as a concept, only to have him pause and comment disappointedly about Remus’ late arrival. Oh no, that absolutely cannot happen. 

The elevator pings and the doors fly open, so time efficient right when he doesn’t need it to be, and a crowd of people stare back at him as he remains standing in place. 

“Sorry,” he says, unsure of where he is even going now that he has real time to kill, “I don’t need it anymore.” 

A few people in the crowd don’t even register that the elevator has made a pointless stop, they are too entrenched in whatever is happening on their phones at that point in time, but those who do are not afraid to let Remus know how they really feel as a chorus of purgatory-style groans flows out — along with one wonderful comment about _try to pay attention next time, pal, we have places to be —_ before the doors close in front of him. But Remus is getting used to this, the utter surrealness of the day, and instead of reflecting on it, he shifts his attention back to his phone. 

_Fourth floor,_ he types back. _Courtroom 4D. You’ll have to go through security._ And then, _I’ll stand outside the courtroom, but I have to be back inside before 1:30, so if you aren’t able to make it by then, I’ll give the wallet to a security guard or something._

_I’ll be there,_ he responds immediately. And now Remus has a bit of time to burn before heading back down to the fourth floor and he might as well take advantage of it with a bathroom break. 

He finds the restroom down the hall to the left, and when he enters, notes that it’s on the smaller side of what he expected for such a large public building. There are two stalls and a couple of urinals in the corner. Always one to choose the secluded option when it’s available, Remus walks ahead to take the stall on the far end. 

And no problems there, emptying his bladder is smooth sailing enough, and as he finishes up, the sound of the door opening fills the room followed by loud echoing footsteps. Remus peeks through the crack of the door to find one Jim Potter waltzing toward the sink, and he isn’t sure, but he thinks he detects a spring in his step. 

Remus is glad to have landed in such a lucky hiding spot, as it were, because the last thing he wants right now is an interaction with the attorney. And since he has nothing better to do anyway for the moment, he decides his best bet is to hang out in the stall for a one-man Mexican standoff until Jim either takes the other stall or leaves. Minimize facetime; maximize Remus’ comfort. What he does not expect is the Production that happens next.

“Alright, Jimbo,” Remus hears, and he soundlessly peeks through the crack again to see that Jim is holding an absolute power stance in front of the sink. His hands grip either side of it as he leans forward to look at himself — to _really_ look at himself — in the mirror. “You’ve got this,” he says. “Yeah. You.”

After one final nod of confidence directed to his visage, he is turning on the sink and pairing the action with a lightly whistled tune that Remus quickly recognizes as the Rocky theme song — taking a long while to wash his hands before he forgoes the paper towel dispenser and gives his wrists a good hard couple of shakes instead. And those two damp hands are being raised up to rework his disheveled coif into something just as chaotic, but different. To top it all off when that’s all done, he declares, “It’s showtime, folks!” before abruptly turning on his heels and heading straight out the door. 

Remus hangs back for 5 extra seconds in another moment of surreal limbo, before remembering he’s just chilling in a bathroom at this point. The stall door creaks open as Remus reemerges, and seeing as he had wasted more time than intended he had really better get a move on, because even though the court moves at its own pace entirely, he still has an internal clock that demands rigid timekeeping and conscientiousness. A quick wash of his hands and he is out the door, deciding that the stairs can’t possibly be as bad going down instead of up. Plus, maybe he deserves the sweltering penance after his elevator faux pas from earlier. 

The stairwell is just as hot as he remembers, but he was right, and it’s not bad going down. When he reaches the fourth floor, instead of sweating pools into his button-up, this time he is merely unpleasantly warm. It is 1:19 when he checks the time, and like clockwork, a new message from Patrick comes through.

_I’m here_ , it says. _About to go through security. There’s no line, see you on the fourth floor soon._

_Great,_ Remus types back immediately as he reaches Courtroom 4D and leans against the wall next to the door, pulling his email app back up as he waits.

And apparently everybody not named Remus Lupin has an easy time getting through security, for Patrick appears not two minutes later. Remus spots him first, looking for signs pointing to 4D while generally trying to get a lay of the land, and lifts an unenthusiastic hand to catch his attention. It works, and Patrick’s face lights up as he makes his way over. 

“Hey,” Remus says as he takes the wallet from his pocket. “Sorry about this whole thing.”

Patrick gives a one-sided shrug to match the easy smile taking up residency on his face. Remus can see something in his eyes, and he takes a quick three seconds to praise the universe that he has to be locked in that courtroom behind him in a mere seven minutes. 

“I’m just surprised I didn’t notice; I must have been distracted this morning,” he says, tossing back a lock of bronze hair that had fallen in his eyes. 

Remus coughs, and his eyes flit to the left, catching sight of the couple from earlier making their way into the courtroom _together_ this time. That should be interesting. 

“How is it going in there?”

And oh look, there’s Erin Brockavich. She’s walking with a couple other jury folks that Remus recognizes, speaking very loudly about _Lucy v. Zetmer —_ or _Zaymer_ — or something. 

“Remus?” 

And right, there’s Patrick. “Sorry, what?”

He laughs. “How’s jury duty going?”

“It’s riveting,” Remus answers. He vaguely hears the energetic timbre of Jim Potter’s voice greeting someone, and he’s paying barely enough attention to notice the sound of the high five that follows it. “Super thrilled to be here.”

“When I had jury duty a couple years back it was for a vehicular manslaughter case. I thought it would be interesting to be picked, and I kind of wanted to be on the jury, but it probably would have been really depressing too,” Patrick says of it.

“Yeah, probably,” Remus mentions, raising his hand dully to gesture at the room behind him. “I’d better get going, people are starting to head in.” 

“Let me know when you want to meet up again?” Patrick shifts his weight to his left side, making such direct eye contact with Remus that he can’t help but admire the man’s forwardness. Like chocolate colored lasers shooting into his eyes unrelentingly.

“Patrick, you know I’m just really not looking for something serious right now, right?” he fucking lies because it’s easy. But it’s only a half lie, he tells himself, as he certainly isn’t looking for something serious with Patrick. And at least he isn’t leading him on. 

“No, I know. Me too,” he responds with total ease and Remus feels like he can breathe again. It’s always refreshing to be on the same page. “Just, you know,” he starts as a hand lifts and moves towards Remus’ face, sliding a piece of hair off of his forehead in a way that is far too intimate for Remus’ stomach to handle, “when you want to repeat last night.”

Remus blinks, unmoving. And he’s in a fresh new hell when he feels the same hand dropping lower before it gives Remus’ hand a gentle squeeze. In the distance, he registers Mango Shawl’s voice talking on speaker phone, somebody chewing rather loudly, and the deep-throated laugh of Satan, king of the underworld, coming to stoke the flames of his unfortunate existence today. And then Patrick, who leans in to say, softly, “I’ll see you, Remus.”

With that, he turns away, slipping his newly retrieved wallet into his back pocket — he does have a nice ass, at least there is that, Remus gives him — and floating back to the elevator and right out of Remus’ life. He lets out a relieved sigh.

He’s pulled out of the unpleasant daze, however as his eyes find where the chewing sound is coming from. And of course, there’s Sirius casually leaning against the wall across from him, green apple from earlier in hand as he crunches into it, looking downright content.

Mortification. “Have you been there the whole time?” Remus asks blankly.

He grins, chewing, and that’s enough to answer the question. And to really make the situation that much worse, he adds, “Your boyfriend is cute.”

Remus cannot help the look that crosses his face nor the veracity with which he denies the question with an emphatic, _“No.”_

Sirius blinks at that, looking surprised, before he gives his head a quick shake. “Sorry,” he starts, “I didn’t mean to assume.”

“No, I mean… yes about _that_ assumption,” Remus spins out, feeling merely like a passenger on the ride of whatever his mouth is deciding to say right now, “but no about him being my boyfriend.” Remus is probably only imagining that the other man’s grin has grown slightly wider, and shiver me fucking timbers with those eyes already. 

“Alright,” he says with infuriating simplicity. 

Silence. Remus taps his foot twice. More silence.

“It was a one time thing,” Remus keeps going to fill the space, regretting the words as soon as they come out and wondering what the hell has gotten into him that he feels the need to explain this to a near-stranger.

Another bite; he’s getting to the core now. Remus scratches his nose and Sirius just raises his eyebrows, chewing, silently.

“Okay, I’m going to go back into the courtroom,” he blurts out, turning around. “This has been horrible,” he tosses over his shoulder, then hears the other man’s bark of laughter that he cannot see.

His exit strategy is successful, and a second later he is back behind the safe fortress doors of the courtroom. People have taken the same seats they had before — always creatures of habit — and who is Remus to rock the boat, especially after that near drowning only a minute earlier. He wedges himself against the row of seats in front of him and side steps his way over to his chair between the 12-year-old and Mango Shawl. 

“First things first,” Remus catches Erin B. in mid-conversation. “Was there even a contract to begin with?” she waxes on as she lives out her dream of impressing people outside of the legal field with what must be the absolute basics. “Offer. Acceptance. Consideration. Otherwise there is no legally binding contract.” Honestly though, Remus learned this shit in a business course. 

Mango Shawl overhears and leans forward to add some more fuel to the fire. “It needs to be in writing, now, doesn’t it?” she asks as somebody else in the group floats out, “But what is ‘consideration?’” Remus balks visibly when he sees it’s the woman whose gargantuan eyeroll had given him life only a few hours earlier. The _turncoat._

“It depends,” Erin B. turns to Mango Shawl first with a pointed, scholarly finger. “Generally no, contracts do not need to be in writing to be legally binding. But if the contract is governed by the Statute of Frauds, then it does need a written agreement. So the big ones to remember are contracts involving marriage, sale of land, or contracts for the sale of goods over 500 dollars.” 

“Well ya learn something new every day,” Mango Shawl trills, delighted at this new information, and then she sits back to tap emphatically on Remus’ knee for some reason and gives it a real good squeeze. She leans closer to him now, “You listening, young man? This girl could teach a whole class on contract law!”

Erin B. absolutely eats that praise up, while Remus just stares down at her hand on him. Erin B. practically vibrates in her seat as she turns to her next student. “And then ‘consideration’,” she moves on to address lady Benedict Arnold, “is when both parties benefit from the agreement. It cannot just be a promise from one person to another —“

And that’s quite enough of that, and the next moment sees Remus scanning the room to latch onto something else. Anything. Else. He decides to tune his eavesdrop radar into the conversation behind him instead. Given the alternative, the new story about Maggie’s senior prom date hitting her up on instagram ten years later is positively enthralling. 

“He lives in California now,” she explains to her new bff. “I don’t know, I think there still could be something there. I sound pretty crazy don’t I?”

Yes, thinks Remus. “No no no,” the best friend — Remus recalls is named Howard or Horace, or some two syllable name starting with an H — drawls in a deep Charleston lilt, and the whole scene just truly and genuinely makes Remus’ day. “This is what people call fate, Hon. So, are you gonna to do it?”

“Do what?” Maggie asks with innocence. 

Howard huffs. “Gawd! Book the dang flight!”

But before Remus can find out if Maggie was going to take a chance on love, the door from the judge’s chambers bursts open and out struts Jim Potter, looking young and wild and free, followed by the other three attorneys trailing behind him. It’s 1:45.

Like a cockroach being shooed from its hiding spot, the tattooed love boy who decided to follow his lover into the courtroom scurries out, giving her one last tragic parting glance before slamming the door shut behind him. It’s an honest to god Circus, Jim Potter is the ring leader, and apparently, it is showtime, folks.

“I can see from your bright and beautiful faces that lunch was great?” Jim’s voice booms through the courtroom. Remus swivels his head around and finds that with the exception of Mango Shawl and Erin —who are both nodding with equal fervor — nobody else gives off any indication that anything in their life is ‘great’ at the moment. 

Jim catches Mango Shawl’s eye and gives her a nod. “Where did you go?” 

The realization hits that her beau is indeed talking to her, and Remus feels her startle next to him. “Chipotle,” she answers, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. “I ordered a chicken burrito. And the guacamole — how do they make that stuff so delicious?”

“I know it,” he laughs, “I’m a fan of the carnitas myself.” Remus notices that with that small bit of attention has catapulted her soundly onto cloud nine, and she gives her shawl a little shimmy around her shoulders. 

Jim turns his attention to readdress the group now. “Thank you all for getting back here in such a timely manner,” he praises them, and that’s rich coming from the man who is perpetually late. “The four of us spent the last couple of hours eliminating a first round of you who will be dismissed right now. And I just want to apologize in advance, because I know some of you must be invested in this case already. I know when I stepped foot in a courtroom for the first time, I never wanted to leave,” he carries on with a laugh, and by this point Remus isn’t even irritated. He’s not even wondering how this guy can be so endlessly positive. He is just numb. “I wish we could _just take all of you.”_ Oh, oh God. 

“That being said,” Kim takes over, “we the attorneys, the clients, and judges truly appreciate the time you all sacrificed today. You’ll get a check in the mail within two weeks for the time you spent here. So without further adieu, if I read off your juror number, you are free to go and we really appreciate the time you contributed to the justice system today.”

Remus sits up straighter and a rush of hope jolts through his veins. He has a townhome, he thinks, and he is part of an HOA — this is his moment, this is his time. He _must_ be deemed biased enough, there’s no way around it. 

“Juror number 2,” Kim starts, reading off of the list in front of her as Jim goes back to sit beside his co-counsel. “Juror number 3, Juror number 6…”

“See,” Erin B. whispers to those around her as she grabs her purse and places it on her lap while Kim continues to read off jurors who have officially been granted access to the Promise Land. 

“Juror number 11, Juror number 12…”

Remus looks up at the clock and realizes with relish that if he gets out of here by two o’clock, he could spend the rest of the day working from home on his couch, with a second coffee before it gets too late, all by himself. Nirvana.

“Juror number 13, Juror number 15, Juror number 19…”

It would be perfect timing, actually. Too late for it to make sense to commute to the office, but enough time to catch up on whatever he missed before tomorrow. If the workload isn’t too complex, maybe he could even soak in a little news as he works. He can almost taste the freedom, and my, is it sweet.

“Juror number 25, Juror number 26…”

And here we go, lucky number 29. He’s never had a lucky number before, but this one is gonna be it, he’s sure of it.

“Juror number 28…”

He cannot help it. There is a smile growing on his face now. His heartbeat quickens. And heavens to Betsy, he’s coming home.

Anddddd. “Juror number 32, Juror number 35…”

A rush of anger, of helplessness, of despair enters his being with a ferocity so strong that it almost propels him into a fugue state. While his mind grapples to stay tethered to reality, he’s barely registering Kim’s far-away voice as she continues to monotonously list off the numbers of the chosen few, and it sinks in that he is truly stuck here for the rest of the day. Perhaps even the following day. And God forbid he actually gets selected for the trial, because if this is how long the simple selection of six jurors takes, then the actual trial will have him in this establishment until his 40th birthday or perhaps a new ice age. 

His body shakes with a small whimper, made all the worse when Mango Shawl throws out a disappointed huff a few seconds later as her number is called. It doesn’t take Kim long to finish calling out the remaining jurors, and soon enough, about half the room is getting up and shuffling out of the courtroom. This is what heartbreak feels like. He remembers now.

“The second half of today will be simple for the lucky half of you still standing,” Jim continues after all of the dismissed jurors have left the room. Remus notes that the woman with the extremely committed boyfriend is no longer present, and damn, her and tattooed love boy are probably in for quite a reunion. “Kim and I have constructed a set of questions we’d like to ask some of you individually, and then if anything else comes up, we will go from there.” He rubs his hands together eagerly, and Remus wonders what he must be like when he performs his card tricks if this is how excited he gets merely from doing his job.

“With these questions, more information about the case is going to be revealed,” Kim elaborates. “If you need any further clarification about how the questions or the information pertains to you, feel free to ask and either Jim or I will clear that up for you.” She pauses for a bit, and seeing that there are no questions, she calls out the first juror she would like to speak to. “Juror number 17, Mr. Nieblas?” 

“Yep?” A man in the front row with a booming voice that rivals Jim Potter’s pipes up. 

“You work as a real estate developer, is that correct?” she continues.

“Well I sure do,” he confirms, all ruddy cheeks and bravado, and then adds on unnecessarily, “pays the bills so that I can pursue my side projects. Ranching mostly.”

_I’ve been waiting on the sunset_ _  
_ _Bills on my mindset_ _  
_ _I can’t deny that they’re gettin’ high_

“Is the focus of your business primarily residential or commercial?” Kim pries for the relevant information, and Remus sneaks a glance at Mr. Nieblas to find that he looks disappointed at not having the opportunity to expound on roping and riding or whatever it is he loves. Remus doesn’t blame him.

_Higher than my income_ _  
_ _Income’s bread crumbs_ _  
_ _I’ve been trying to survive_

He sets his elbow on the armrest, leaning his head into his hand and using this as an opportunity to close his eyes. The attorneys drone on for an incalculable amount of time, throwing out a number of questions that Remus loses count of. He catches a couple of phrases, ‘mutual assent’, ‘misappropriation of funds’, ‘potential fraud,’ ‘strawberry cheesecake’, but his cognition is too powered down for him to fully comprehend the conversation as a whole. 

_But you gotta keep your head up, oh oh_ _  
_ _And you can let your hair down—_

“Juror number 29? Mr. Lupin?” A pause. Remus vaguely registers the familiarity of those phonemes. “Mr. Lupin?”

He twitches out of it, a bit frantically, and clears his throat. “Yeah sorry, I’m right here,” he halfway croaks, his traitorous voice giving away the fact that he really had drifted off there for a good while.

Kim makes eye contact with him. “Do we have it right that you work for a large tech company?”

“I do.”

“Do you think you could remain free of bias if the company you worked for, or a company similar to the one you work for, was tangentially related to the case?” she asks, and Remus furrows his eyebrows because he must have missed something there, unaware of how exactly his company could have anything to do with an HOA case.

“Maybe?” Remus answers a bit aimlessly. “I don’t know. It’s hard for me to answer that when I don’t know what any of the details are.”

“If funds were allegedly misappropriated from the HOA to buy advertisements from your company for reasons unrelated to the townhome community, do you think it would skew how you view the case?” Jim rewords the question. 

And Remus scoffs to himself, because no, that wouldn’t make a difference to him. But this is his moment, and he is going to run with the opportunity. “Maybe,” he answers, keeping it short and sweet, but unable to lie completely outright without getting his telltale shifty eyes. Reticence is his best bet.

The two attorneys share a look — an inaudible conversation happening between them right in front of Remus — and he hopes that it means he has won. But it’s impossible to tell, and Remus thinks that the literal one good thing about witnessing the trial would be to see just how Jim and Kim work against each other for how well they actually work together. 

And they must be done with him for now because Jim suddenly loses interest in him and adjusts his gaze to the opposite side of the room. “Juror number 48, Ms. Hawkings?” he starts, and Remus feels his shoulders relax now that the spotlight is off of him. It’s in God’s hands now. He checks the clock on the wall. It’s already 3:50.

And now that it has set in, the fact he really had actually dozed off during jury duty, he takes a moment to rub his eyes and fully bring his consciousness back into the room. He is too delighted that he blew a whole entire hour just now to be even slightly embarrassed about it — and that’s coming from a man who is uncomfortable with _anybody_ watching him sleep, let alone a room full of strangers. And for a day that has been spent doing absolutely nothing, Remus cannot believe how tired he is.

Time ticks on, Remus cannot be bothered to keep track of the questions any longer, and he’s just begun seriously debating the merits of naptime part II. He glances over aimlessly to see that the 12-year-old next to him is playing some sort of game on his phone. He’s built his own dragon world, by the looks of it — full of all different sorts of those majestic winged creatures — and watching the coins flow into his stash become hypnotic. Beautiful dragons with names and levels and, oh, would you look at at all of the food he has growing for them in his garden—

“Kim, it’s past 4:15 already, I think we better wrap this up, what do you say?” Jim’s voice causes Remus’ ears to perk up and he averts his gaze, a bit begrudgingly so, back in front of him. 

Kim walks over to the table behind her, looking at the notes that her co-counsel has jotted down throughout the day for a long minute. She then sends Jim a curt nod of agreement, and Remus’ breath quickens.

Jim brings his hands together into a clap as a satisfied smile forms on his face, eyes beaming behind those thick glasses of his. “Alright folks, we are going to call it a day for you all, set you free so to speak,” he tacks on for another dose of good humor. “Now Kim and I still need to deliberate about final jury selections, and then the actual trial will start tomorrow morning.” And this is good news. At least Remus will have an understanding of what happens next — and the odds are still in his favor with only six jurors being selected, plus a couple of alternates. “But we’re still going to need you all to come back here tomorrow morning,” Jim breaks through his thoughts to say, crushing his budding joy and triumph, crushing all logical coherence governing how he thought this process might go. 

But then again, maybe it’s his fault. He should have known by now.

“Unfortunately, the deliberations could take a couple of hours between us,” Kim explains the question that the whole room must be wondering. Everybody else _must_ be wondering why they can’t just deliberate now and let them know in 30 minutes, right? But as he looks around the room, people mindlessly scrolling through their phones, his brain nearly explodes because it appears that absolutely nobody else has a problem with this except for him, “so we think it’s best to dismiss you now, seeing as the courthouse closes at 5pm. We wouldn’t want to keep you here for another hour just to not have a decision firmed up yet.” 

And how fucking considerate. He gains one whole hour in exchange for his entire morning tomorrow, and that’s a conservative estimate. Another ride over to the courthouse, another dazzling trip through security, another long wait for the attorneys to arrive and they won’t even get started until 10 o’clock if tomorrow is anything like today. 

“The good news is,” Kim expounds, but Remus doesn’t care, nothing matters anymore, life is meaningless and we’re all just careening toward the heat death of the universe, “as soon as you arrive tomorrow, those of you who have not been selected will be dismissed, and those of you who are selected will be placed in the jury box and the trial will start immediately. We will be assigned to a different courtroom tomorrow, so when you arrive around 8am again, please go to the jury check-in on the third floor again, and they will let you all know where to go.” 

“And another day off work, right?” Jim pipes in to say, and Remus can’t take it anymore. 

He tips his head to his left. “Hey, what game is that?” he whispers to the 12-year-old, who is truly the smartest person in the room. 

He jumps a little bit, and then Remus jumps a little bit too when the kid answers in a deep baritone, “Dragonvale.” 

“Great, thanks,” he murmurs, because if this hell-spun nightmare is going to be extended at a minimum of another morning and a maximum of the entire week, he’s going to need an escape. And although he normally isn’t a gaming type, given the choice between a world of magical dragons and this soul-sucking purgatory of inefficiency, it’s no contest.

The group shuffles out of the courtroom when they are finally dismissed, and it’s difficult for Remus to find any joy in it knowing that tomorrow is going to be just a new version of today. He pushes a hand through his hair as he trudges with Eeyore energy down the long hall in the direction of the elevator, and he cannot believe that he has only actually been at this place for just eight hours total. 

Remus is warm, and whether it’s from the temperature or just exhaustion and frustration he isn’t sure. It does feel nice to get out of the courtroom and into fresher air, though, and he starts making some plans for the evening that are already brightening his mood fractionally. Then out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sirius standing against the wall talking to the defense attorney again, and both of them are flipping through some papers she is holding between them and speaking with equal amounts of animation.

But he can only see Sirius peripherally, and he certainly isn’t paying attention to him, or watching how his eyes seem to follow Remus as soon as he catches sight of him too. He most certainly isn’t walking a touch slower as he passes by, nor does he notice Sirius lift a hand to pause his conversation with the other attorney, sending the smallest wave in Remus’ direction. And he most _most_ certainly doesn’t feel like he just plunged headfirst into the Pacific Ocean as soon as Sirius’ face breaks out into a grin.


	3. Day 2, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the day (the beat is important here): [It Was A Good Day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VA_P8DREazc)

Day Two gets off to a start that is far more promising than Day One, at least, with Remus waking to the sound of his own gentle alarm, wrapped up in his sheets completely alone, and with more than enough time to make coffee and scroll through his news app with a decent amount of leisure. He takes a few minutes to pack another lunch, as he has no expectations of the day going any more smoothly than yesterday, and isn’t about to risk it — especially after seeing the hit or miss options at the cafe. And recalling the enlightening experience he had yesterday regarding what’s considered acceptable attire for jury duty, he makes the easy decision to grab for his standard casual pair of dark jeans and an ivory tee; the fancy blazer stays hung up in the back of his closet again in its rightful place today. At rest, soldier.

He leaves at around the same time as the previous morning, feeling far more alert and comfortable all around, which is saying something considering how dead he feels inside from the prospect of another fine day wasted in court. But he knows what to expect now, and that at least brings him some small comfort. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder with a sigh, he heads out to his car.

The previous night had passed by all too quickly. He spent most of the evening catching up on work and eating his feelings via take-out from his favorite Meditarranean restaurant down the street. He’s pretty sure he’ll miss the company All Hands meeting at 10 o’clock this morning, which is unfortunate timing; he was supposed to present a look-back on the PR team’s initiatives over the last quarter. This is his typical responsibility as a department lead, but he decided to pass the whole presentation off to Amanda, who is more than capable of stepping up in his place. The bright side, he had thought as he’d dialed her number the evening before to update her on the good news, is that jury duty provides him a reason to give her the opportunity.

He feels more in control of the day as a whole, and when Ice Cube comes on as he pulls into the parking garage, he can’t help but hope that it’s a positive omen; maybe, Ice Cube, it _will_ be a good day. At the very least, a better day.

Remus takes a deep breath before he pulls the door open to the courthouse lobby, thinking now that his optimism was misplaced and hell would have to freeze over in order for that to be a thing, and indulges in that brief moment of meditation as he gears up for the shitshow that awaits. He finds that the line is as long as the day before, and although it _should_ move quickly, Remus is too battleworn to count on that. He removes his belt as he waits this time and takes a cue from yesterday’s lesson, putting his keys and wallet in a zippered pocket of his backpack and checks his pockets for forgotten metal so that he does not waste a single moment being held hostage by Francy again.

And there she is, standing by the metal detector, greeting people with dimpled smiles and sipping happily on an iced drink that looks identical to the one Sirius had brought her yesterday. Remus vaguely wonders if he brought her that drink today too.

He’s got that smooth tune looping through his head while he waits — how optimistic of him, really — and soon enough it’s his turn. He can’t help but hear spirit-fingered Jim Potter announcing “It’s showtime!” in the back of his mind as he steps up to the conveyor belt, and frankly he doesn’t expect it’ll be the last time he calls on that memory for how much of an impact that bizarre scene had on him. Maybe he’ll use it as a boost before the annual shareholder meeting next week. He snorts to himself while he curls his belt up into a tray and scoots his backpack up behind it, thinking that he’s actually kind of looking forward to seeing Jim and Kim again today, inexplicable and blasphemous as it is, and he waits a moment for Francy to dole out her order. 

Her voice rings out. Another deep breath and he’s up to the metal detector, closing his eyes as he braces for impact. And as he crosses the threshold of those unpearly gates… nothing. No double-beeps. Certainly no bodily injury this time, or even an impatient “SIR” lobbed his way; just a clinical request to have a nice day. Did he really make it through without a hitch? It can’t be true, he thinks frantically as he looks around, only to see that the young woman in a sundress behind him is waiting for him to clear the way so she can have her turn now; and she doesn’t even look irritated. In fact, nobody in the whole lobby looks or sounds anything but content. Could the wise and holy Ice Cube be right about today?

 _Just waking up in the morning, gotta thank God_ _  
__I don’t know, but today seems kinda odd_

He steps forward, feeling as though he just cheated something very significant and will get caught any moment, and he side-eyes his backpack and belt exiting the scanner on the left, which are presumably just sitting there ready for him to reclaim now. He steps over and quietly re-threads his leather belt, and it’s all unsettling in its absolute lack of drama. 

Suspiciously, he blinks and lifts his backpack up and over one shoulder, waiting five seconds — looking for a moment to Francy, who has completely moved on, and then to Billy, whose eyes are meticulously surveying his monitor — waiting for _something_ to make this an unpleasant experience. And yet, nothing does. So he shakes himself out of this pessimistic daze, marveling at this heavenly parallel universe that he’s ascended to, and heads for the stairs.

 _No barking from the dogs, no smog_ _  
__And momma cooked a breakfast with no hog_

It must be early enough in the day, because the stairwell isn’t scorching hot yet as he pads up to the third floor. Add that to the fact that he is wearing his most broken-in pair of Chelsea boots today, and everything about the morning feels easeful so far. When he pushes through the stairwell door into the jury waiting area, his eyes automatically go to the section he had been directed toward yesterday, and finds that it is also where they have been assigned today. What an incredibly logical call made by whatever angel organized the summons logistics this morning, Remus comments internally with a smile that he knows is coming off as unhinged to anyone looking at him, but he just can’t _help_ it when confronted with good, sound, sensible decision-making. He swings his backpack off and takes the same seat as yesterday. The time is 7:48. 

The group of potential jurors has of course been cut in half this morning, and most of them trickle in before eight o’clock. There are faces that Remus recognizes now, and on the flip side, there are many absent ones he is grateful he doesn’t have to see for a second time; and voices that he does not have to hear going on and on, too, thank the mighty sorcerer in the sky for that. 

_I got my grub on, but didn't pig out_ _  
__Finally got a call from a girl want to dig out_

Remus settles in for an hour long wait now, getting nice and comfy, and swipes to the app corresponding to the dragon game he downloaded last night. It’s high time to check on the new round of crops he planted, and oh ho, would you look at that, they are ready for harvest. He’s feeding his Moon Dragon when Maggie arrives and plops down a few seats away from him, which triggers Remus to look around to see if Howard/Horace has entered the scene yet. He is disappointed to find that Howard/Horace hasn’t, for he would really like to hear the rest of the story about Maggie’s California Boy right about now, and if he really is undeniable — fine, fresh, fierce — and thus, if he’s got it on lock. But Remus is patient and as they say, he’s got all day. Well, all morning at least. He hopes with all he has that it’s not all day. 

But the 12-year-old dragon maestro arrives first, and when he sits a couple of seats away from him — and can Remus please take a moment to delight in how nice it is to have empty seats around him? — Remus lifts up his phone to show him that, hey man, look at this, I’m raising some dragons too. The kid who’s not a kid gives him a thumbs up, and that’s some pure solidarity right there. 

It’s 8:15 when a man with a court badge comes by to check them in again, and it’s 8:22 when he finishes and assigns them to courtroom 8F on the eighth floor. They have the same juror numbers and are given another set of nametags for the day in case they forgot the ones they were given the day before, which Remus hadn’t forgotten, for the record. And Ice Cube is on his way to prophethood in Remus’ eyes, because by a mere 8:30, the group has made it up to 8F and is already seated in the first four rows, at attention and ready for the day to start. 

“So…?” Remus hears a deep Southern voice drawl out, and he whips his head around to find that one Howard/Horace is here, and he is doing the Lord’s work by asking for the rest of Maggie’s story within his earshot. Add the fact that this courtroom is much smaller than the one prior, and Remus literally has a front row seat to the conversation. 

Maggie doesn’t answer for a couple of moments, and Remus turns his head _just_ enough to catch her in his peripheral, finding a disappointed face that does not bode well for the story. And is there some anger in those eyes? He thinks there is. “Oh no honey, what happened?” Howard/Horace sympathizes with a pure-heartedness that Remus can’t deny is really damn likable . 

A long sigh. “I did some more instagram stalking last night,” she admits heavily.

“Oh no,” he repeats, but more morosely. “I can’t imagine that led anywhere good.”

A sniffle and a groan. “It’s really bad actually, I feel like an idiot.”

“Absolutely not,” he comforts, but Remus needs to know what she found. He grips his phone harder as he waits. “What was it?” Howard/Horace asks, and Remus wants to award him with a medal. 

“Well you know we had been messaging, right? Private messaging?” she explains, and Howard/Horace must nod in reply because she continues with, “We’ve had really in-depth conversations, we picked up where we left off. That spark that I always felt between us was somehow still there. It was crazy, I’ve never experienced anything like it…” she adds sadly. 

“So what happened?”

“I found that he had another profile, using his real name and picture and everything right out in the open,” she starts, and uh oh, Remus thinks, this can’t be going anywhere good. “It was private though, so I had to make a fake account so that I could friend request him on it.” And, here we go, it’s spiraling. 

“Did he eventually add you?” Howard/Horace asks slowly.

“He did,” she sighs. “And this is where I feel like the biggest dummy on the planet. The guy who has been messaging me non-stop, the one who says that he never stopped thinking about me over all these years, who always wondered ‘what if’...” she pauses for a good five seconds and Remus is absolutely _on the edge of his seat,_ “has a wife and three kids.”

“ _No,”_ Remus hears himself say, breathily and far louder than he would have intended if he had even intended for the word to come out of his mouth at all. His eyes widen when he realizes that it did, in fact, come out of his mouth and was, in fact, loud enough for everyone around him to hear. 

So he turns slowly, until he makes eye contact with Maggie behind him. He coughs, face undoubtedly red now. “Sorry. I couldn’t help but overhear. And that’s really awful.”

“Uh, yeah,” Maggie looks at him with wide eyes, and she really shouldn’t be surprised that another person was listening in given the close quarters. There’s no way Remus was the _only_ one. “Thanks.”

He nods, feeling beyond uncomfortable but doesn’t regret the eavesdrop for a second, and turns his gaze back to the front of the room as Howard/Horace starts on how Remus was right, it’s unbelievable how you cannot rely on anyone to be a stand-up person during this day and age. What a shame, when you cannot trust the folks you thought you knew, and _amen to that, Howard/Horace_. The time is 8:39. Remus sure is glad he deleted all his social media years ago. 

“Do you think I should reach out to his wife and tell her? About the double-life her husband is leading?” Maggie asks Howard/Horace, her voice quieter now as to not be overheard. And good thing it doesn’t work. 

Howard/Horace hesitates. “I don’t know,” he breathes out. “Do you really want to rope yourself into a mess like that?”

“No, I don’t,” she answers a little too resolutely, and Remus isn’t totally buying it. “But,” and there it is, “don’t you think his wife has a right to know?”

“I find that people are usually already aware of who they are married to,” Howard/Horace lays down the caliber of absolute wisdom that only comes with age, and Remus wonders what his life story entails. First prize in a regional gardening competition? A purple heart? A nobel prize? “If they say they aren’t, then they’ve been willfully ignoring some pretty big red flags most of the time. And if that’s the case, she’s far more likely to believe him than you.” Damn. “My advice? Move on, cut him off, don’t give him any more of your time or any more power over you.” The man is a sage. 

Maggie is less discerning, responding with something along the lines of ‘but what about the justice of it all,’ and missing the point altogether. But he’ll cut her some slack, it’s a tough pill to swallow, poor Maggie, and California (Married) Boy certainly will get a good dose of karma eventually, whether or not Maggie is the wielder of it.

And it must be less than three minutes later when the door beside the judge’s bench opens smoothly and Kim McGill walks in, followed by her co-counsel first, and Jim Potter and his co-counsel second. Remus nearly leaps from his seat he is so stunned by this development — his whole world had been turned upside down the day before and now it’s suddenly right side up all over again — whiplash at its finest and most shocking. 

“Good morning,” Jim throws out jovially, really elongating the first word of the greeting. “And it _is_ a good morning because we have some great news,” he expounds as he sets down a couple of binders on the table to the right with the air of a man who just sawed a woman in half and then made the big reveal that she is still alive and well. “We have finalized the jury list.”

Remus swallows. He inhales. He is _not_ going to get his hopes up. Not going to do it; it wouldn’t be prudent.

“We have selected six jurors and two alternates,” Kim takes over to explain with that matter-of-fact tone that Remus is more than fond of. “The rest of you will be free to leave, and we do really appreciate you coming to court two days in a row,” she adds as Jim chimes in with something about the timeless beauty of civic duty or whatever the fuck.

It won’t be so bad if he is chosen, he tries to tell himself, even though it’s not so true. It won’t be so bad, things are moving now. Things are happening. But then again, if he is released… _No._ That thought is too alluring to even allow into his brain, for it will consume him. He will not give this establishment the ability to crush him. And by the way, why is Jim Potter looking straight at him? Okay, there’s no doubt about it, he’s been chosen.

“So if I call out your juror number, please stay and make your way into the jury box to my left,” Kim motions, “and if I do not, you are free to go.”

It _can’t_ be that bad. How long do most trials last anyway? One day? Maybe two? If it’s a breach of contract case, how complex can it be…

“Juror number 9, Juror number 14, Juror number 24…”

Remus braces himself.

“Juror number 31, Juror number 40, and Juror number 42. You six are our six members of the jury.” 

Remus could fucking _weep._ Bright lights. He’s moving towards them now. They’re so luminous, so beautiful. Here he comes.

“And our two alternates are..” and oh fuck, he thought too soon, he celebrated too early, and here God is, perfectly positioned to smite him and send him straight back into the hellish abyss of—

“Juror number 15 and Juror number 51.”

He breathes out a cry, a sad muffled little thing, and his whole face suddenly feels heavy. He’s emotionally drained, been put through the ringer, and he does not know how to handle the level of pure ecstasy intoxicating his spirit. He blinks and comes to as the youngster beside him practically military crawls across his lap to get out of the row as well. And he isn’t even annoyed about it. How could he be annoyed about anything when this day that he expected to be the equivalent of white dog shit has suddenly turned into his salvation, his redemption, his pathway to freedom?

Remus wastes no more time before standing up and bouncing right quick from blessed courtroom 8F, making himself scarce before Jim realizes he’s made a huge mistake, hits the fire alarm frantically, and his booming voice calls out for juror number 29 to report to the courtroom immediately.

And he’s out, like a lanky male Persephone returning from the underworld to find that the world has bloomed and grown bountiful during his absence. 

_I gotta go cause I got me a drop top_

Bouncing his shoulders with that ever-recognizable beat as his very own soundtrack, everything is brighter now. Everything is beautiful. He’s got a good strut going on, his right hip giving a little thrust of its own, refusing to be left out of that sweet melodic rhythm. And what do you know, he’s dancing now, he’s got a spring in his step. As the rest of the dismissed jurors make their way towards the elevators, he turns left instead, striding for a quiet corner of the hallway before pulling up his phone one second and dialing Amanda the next.

“Hey boss,” she answers on the first ring, pausing the conversation for a moment to send a greeting to somebody she must be passing by as she walks. “I’m just getting into the office. What do you need?” And his soul could fly for the competence that wafts from her voice.

“Good news actually,” he laughs, and he just barely avoids dropping an f bomb in his excitement. “I just got released, so I’ll be heading in as well in about half an hour.”

“No way,” she throws back, “and you were so sure it would drag on.”

“Nobody is more pleased than I am,” he assures her, waiting a beat before getting to the real point. “So I’ll be able to lead the department discussion on the call today, you’re off the hook. However, I have a feeling you were looking forward to it...” he pauses, getting a laugh in confirmation before continuing, “so you are welcome to take the call with me in my office; I’ll just give a brief intro and you can lead the rest if you’re interested and don’t have anything else pressing before lunch.” 

“I’m in,” she chimes not a second later, and Remus feels another rush of joy because he really does love his job, and he really does have the greatest team.

“You’re the best,” he affirms. “I’ll see you in half an hour,” he adds before they say goodbye. He slips his phone into his pocket and heads towards the elevators, which fortuitously have no line at all now. The stars have aligned and the universe is making amends. He reaches forward to hit the down button while he taps his boot in rhythm. 

_And if I hit the switch, I can make the ass drop_

Only about 15 seconds later, a dinging sound alerts Remus that his elevator is arriving, and the doors open to reveal that it is only about half full. The music in his head cuts out as he nearly freezes mid-step, for he’s just discovered the lost world of Atlantis, the secret to discovery simply being unexpected eye contact with one Sirius Black, state prosecutor, dressed in dark gray today and making it difficult for Remus to catch his breath all over again. 

“He was barely driving over the speed limit, Black, you know this is in misdemeanor territory,” Remus hears a defense attorney — a man much shorter than Sirius who has commanding conviction in his voice — pushes, his eyes zoned in on the prosecutor’s face with fervor. 

Sirius barks out a laugh, made all the worse by the fact that he is still holding Remus’ gaze — and yes that smile is as dangerous as ever — before turning back to the attorney beside him, speaking at a much lower volume, but still enough for Remus to make out the words. “There was alcohol in his system far over the legal limit, I know I don’t need to remind you of that, Paul, it’s the entire crux of the case. And a woman is dead because of it. This is so far from misdemeanor territory you’d be laughed out of the courtroom and you know it.” 

“He’s just a kid,” Paul supplies, voice dropping ever-lower. “His life shouldn’t be ruined.”

“Twenty-three is an adult. Whether or not his life is ruined up to him, and this could be the wake-up call that he needs,” Sirius answers easily. “Maria Dormas, on the other hand, her life _was_ ended, and she had two actual _kids,_ both under ten years old. Thank God they weren’t in the car with her that night too.” 

The elevator stops on the fifth floor. “We’re not done with this, Black,” Paul calls as he exits the elevator with a couple of others, and there are only four of them in there now. Sirius hums out an _mhm_ that should inspire no level of confidence in Paul that Sirius is going to give in to any offer that isn’t his own idea. 

Remus shifts to the back wall of the elevator now, leaning against the railing only a foot or so away from Sirius. “Hello,” Sirius offers with a crooked smile. “I thought you had already been freed.”

“Only officially freed about five minutes ago,” Remus corrects him.

The elevator stops again, opening to the fourth floor. Sirius stays where he is, but the other two exit, leaving just the two men behind in an otherwise empty elevator. “And here I thought yesterday was your last day. Never to be seen again,” he throws back.

Remus laughs through his nose, feeling out of sorts, but at least he is managing. “Today is my actual last day, but you’re probably right. Starting now, I will never be seen again.”

Sirius hums. “Well that’s a shame.”

Remus snaps his head around to look at the other man, finding an easy close-mouthed grin on his face, and Remus cannot find any words to respond to that. Confused is the word. Confused, and was he—

There’s a strong _jolt_ as they approach the second floor, and then the elevator stops altogether with a groan. The two men remain silent as ten seconds pass by. Remus’ eyes scan the otherwise empty elevator, looking for _something_ but he isn’t sure what. He gives his head a good shake. They still aren’t moving, and the realization falls on him that everything had been too good to be true because now they were— 

“Stuck. It happens a lot around here,” Sirius announces merrily as he takes a couple of steps towards the call button. Remus lets out a huff, his Good Day crumbling before his very eyes because of an ill-timed electrical fail, close quarters, and a man whose charisma and command could give Poseidon a run for his money. 

Remus moves into the corner to lean against it, while Sirius has a brief conversation with whoever is on the other end of the help button. 

“Welp,” he turns to Remus after taking care of that, looking as jovial as ever, “settle in. Last time I was in here for three hours,” he chimes, accentuating the point as he drops down to sit on the floor, pristine suit and all, and leans back heavily against the wall across from Remus. 

Remus blinks, motionless. “What.”

“It was great actually,” Sirius says with a wave of his hand, folding one knee to a 90 degree angle and resting his forearm on it. “One of our public defenders was in here with me, and believe me, we got _a lot_ done. More than ever probably.”

“You don’t say,” Remus sighs with defeat, sinking down and mirroring Sirius’ sitting position now. It’s quiet for a while. Sirius has his phone in his hands, texting away, and once the whole situation truly sinks in for Remus, he bursts out into a small fit of hysterical laughter.

Sirius pauses, looks up at him, and the way his eyebrows raise asks a question more effectively than any combination of words could. 

“Just when everything was going so smoothly,” Remus explains through another laugh, because it really does make sense that this would happen. “I flew too close to the sun and now I am being punished.”

Sirius laughs a wicked sound. “You’re quite dramatic, aren’t you?” he poses, glancing down at his phone for two seconds as his fingers continue to type away, even when he looks back up. 

And that deserves a scoff. “I can count on one hand the number of things that have gone right since I entered this building yesterday,” he justifies, but Sirius just smiles in response. “And anyway, you’re _quite laid back, aren’t you?”_ he mimics. 

“I am, thank you,” he answers brightly. A few seconds pass and then, “Sorry, I’m just messaging one of my attorneys to fill in for me at 9:15 calendar call.”

“Take your time,” Remus says, sneaking a longer look at Sirius’ profile while he’s distracted. “Are they going to be able to do it?”

“Oh, Kate has handled the courtroom hundreds of times, she’s incredibly competent. I just need to fill her in on which cases have reached deals and which are currently open,” he says, eyes narrowing as his fingers pick up speed. “Almost done,” he drawls out slowly.

Remus waits a couple of beats, and once Sirius puts his phone down on his lap with a flourish, goes ahead and asks, “How many cases actually make to trial?”

“On average in criminal court? About five percent,” Sirius answers.

Remus feels his eyes grow wider. “Really? How is that possible?”

“Plenty of reasons,” Sirius gives him with a shrug. “One I think you can see clearly is that courts are overrun and things don’t always move as efficiently as they could; a trial takes up a lot of time and resources from a system that is always low on both those things. Add in the fact that a lot of defendants cannot afford an attorney and thus rely on a public defender… resources are low on both sides, and therefore, in most cases, neither party wants to go to trial when there are other options available.”

Remus surely doesn’t doubt that, just on basic observation, and this new insight into how the judicial system operates has him good and intrigued. “So what exactly happens? Why don’t they go to trial?”

Sirius waves a hand in the air. “A lot of charges get dismissed early on due to lack of evidence or faulty evidence, no use going to trial when I know the evidence isn’t there for conviction. I don’t want to waste the time and money of the state or the defendant,” he says, pointing to himself. "Pretrial motions can quash a case before it starts,” Sirius goes on. “And then plea deals, of course, which often make a lot of sense for both parties involved. Lighter sentences and less serious charges in exchange for avoiding the trial experience altogether. But some people prefer to take the gamble.”

Remus had been nodding slowly throughout, and now there’s a pressing question on his mind. “So how often do _you_ go to trial?” he asks, more interested in real experience than averages.

Sirius tilts his head side to side, still turned so that he’s facing Remus on his left, and hums for it. “Not as often as I would like,” he admits with a laugh. “I love trial, it’s why I became a prosecutor. I never feel more alive than when I’m leading a big case in front of a judge with all of my evidence organized and ready to present to the jury. But unfortunately barely four percent of my cases make it there.”

And damn, that is practically nothing. “Why’s that?” Remus presses. “Why are you even lower than the average?”

Sirius laughs again, just once and quieter now, but his canines flash. “I’m good at what I do and I have a reputation for it.”

Remus hates him. 

Only, he doesn’t. He really doesn’t.

“Well,” Remus starts after a breath, “I was planning on robbing a bank as soon as I got out of here, but maybe now I’ll give it a second thought.”

Sirius leans his head back against the wall as he laughs loudly. “I would appreciate the trial, but please don’t. If the courthouse makes you this miserable, I don’t think you’d last a day in prison.”

Remus snorts. “You’re not wrong. But I think the trial would kill me first,” he declares, checking his phone for the time — 9:03 — before suddenly realizing that he has a work colleague of his own he needs to get in touch with. “Fuck,” he whispers under his breath as he pulls up his thread with Amanda. 

“You alright there?” Sirius asks, looking like the picture of contentment as he merely watches Remus getting into damage control mode. He’s got binders full of work, Remus is sure, and yet here he is, all eyes back on the Remus Show. Somehow more entertaining than the former.

“I just need to text my stand-in as well,” he mutters as he types out the absolutely laughable situation, sending it to Amanda a few seconds later. And well, at least she’s already prepared for the worst and he can count on her to run things without a hitch. He was always available to text if she needed anything, too. “I foolishly thought I could make it to a 10 o’clock call,” he explains, “and, well, you see where that landed me.” 

“It landed you in an elevator shaft,” Sirius supplies helpfully, and Remus wants to slither through the fucking walls for how good that last word sounds coming out of his mouth.

He coughs instead, and it’s a pretty convincing cough that buys him a good chunk of time to think of something, _anything,_ to bring up as conversation as the man across from him is clearly expecting. But he’s struggling to do so, searching every chamber of his mind for inspiration but finding them all empty in his moment of need. And he’s already asked about Sirius’ job, dammit. Low-hanging fruit that’s already been plucked. 

His eyes land on an empty corner of the elevator, and he is absolutely tongue-tied. What does someone bring up in his situation? Breakfast foods? Hardly. That time he got his appendix taken out? Fuck, why is that even a thought. How many wonders those caverns Sirius calls eyes can hold? And _christ,_ he comes up with words for a living, why is he so bad at this.

“Remus Lupin,” Sirius’ voice speaks his name, drawing it out far longer than the four syllables warrant. And if Remus was having trouble speaking before, how the hell is he going to manage now. “First time at jury duty?”

But that question is easy enough. “No,” he starts with a steady voice, “I’ve been called in twice before, but in a different county. Once when I was fresh out of undergrad, and then another maybe three years ago. Got released right away those times. Smaller courthouse, and less,” he waves his hands around as though that is supposed to convey all of the differences, “mess.”

“Ah,” Sirius says, sounding suddenly enlightened. “So that’s what you were expecting to happen this time. Less mess.”

Remus breathes out his very own gust of air. “Yeah,” he confirms, receiving a text back from Amanda assuring him that it’s no problem, she can handle it, and they will discuss how it went when he gets in. And that’s optimistic, Remus thinks, because at this point, he’s not sure he is actually ever going to escape these walls. He takes a deep breath, puts his phone down on the ground next to him, and looks up at Sirius and trains his eyes on his. Or, right there at the bridge of his nose, more accurately, but at least it looks like eye contact. Safer this way.

“How long do you think it will take for Jim and company to finish this whole thing?”

“The trial?” Sirius clarifies.

“Yeah. For those who were fortunate enough to have the ‘privilege’ of participating in the weighing of the scales of justice,” Remus manifests, “as Jim Potter might say.”

Sirius snorts. “That is precisely what he would say.” He gives Remus an appreciative look, and well, now Remus is feeling far too warm. But at least he isn’t wearing a blazer today. “Good one.”

Some time passes in silence, but Sirius sits as comfortably as ever on his side of the elevator. He doesn’t reach for his phone or his notepad or his laptop, despite the work he has to do. No, he just sits there, eyes resting on Remus, waiting for him to say something. Waiting, waiting, wait—

Remus gives in. “Somebody in the courtroom said he runs a magic trick vlog?” he tosses out with defeat, certainly not out of actual interest, but out of hope that it will volley the burden of speaking back over to Sirius again. But yes, to answer the question, he is completely disappointed in himself for bringing up Jim Potter’s alleged vlog dedicated to amateur magic tricks. He had no idea he could fall so far. 

Sirius’ eyebrows raise with pure entertainment. “Word has even gotten out to groups of jurors now?”

“I mean, I heard it from a girl who interned at his firm or something,” Remus says, pure disinterest just dripping from his voice.

“How delightful,” Sirius opines. “He’s actually pretty good you know. He started learning for his toddler — who is his biggest fan by the way — and then, I don’t know what else to say except that the man has a gift for it.”

Remus laughs out loud, thinking he’s joking, but the straight face that Sirius keeps communicates clearly that he is not. Because apparently Jim Potter, attorney at law, truly does have a gift for magic tricks of the ‘pick a card, any card’ variety. So Remus tapers it down, hoping that the laugh at least sounded as though it had come from a good place, and tries again. “You two are close then?”

“I’m his son’s godfather,” Sirius supplies brightly. “So yeah, pretty close.”

“Wow.” Remus blinks. Then he makes the executive decision to cut down on whatever snotty side comments he had reserved for the attorney, because, well, they just aren’t going to fly here. “That must be nice.”

Sirius’ smile communicates just how difficult he knows those words must have been for Remus to speak, and he truly looks like he is living for it. Remus feels himself squirm in the uncomfortable-only-for-him silence, until Sirius decides it is time to throw him a freaking paddle. “I don’t know too many details about the case, but, to answer your question, I imagine it will last two to three days. A week tops.”

Remus pushes out a sigh of pure relief. Even though he was thwarted from his escape just when there was a real light at the end of the tunnel, it really should be acknowledged how grateful he is for having gotten dismissed. A week in any other situation would not feel like a long time. A week would just be the tiniest blip of his life. But here? In the tenth circle of hell? Different story.

“I’m so happy I wasn’t chosen,” he breathes out without anything but pure vulnerable truth in his voice.

Sirius hums. “I deduced that.” 

“Although,” he realizes in the moment, “there was one thing I found interesting about the case that I’m a little bummed that I won’t get to learn more about.”

“Uh huh,” Sirius gives him, his voice laced with amusement and maybe even a little bit of appreciation too. Remus wants to hear it again. “What’s that?”

“The HOA allegedly used funds to purchase online advertisements unrelated to their scope of responsibility,” Remus explains, likely not using the correct legal terms here, but who cares. Sirius doesn’t seem like one to correct him for that. “I don’t know if it was a group of the members, or just one guy who went rogue, or whatever,” Remus waves a hand because that is truly not what is important here. “But I wonder what the ads were for if it got everyone in such an uproar.”

Sirius inhales through his nose, and he bites his lip just barely. Remus finds himself squinting a bit because it looks like he is suppressing a smile. And if Remus was interested before, now he is downright dying to know. 

Sirius blinks. “Yeah I have no idea. Attorney-client privilege and all that, so Jim didn’t tell me any details.”

“Oh,” Remus sighs in disappointment. He must have been imagining something. And fuck all those ridiculous legal TV shows for planting dramatic ideas in his head — they’d probably just used the funds for something routine and lame without getting permission first. Boo.

He looks up to find Sirius looking right back at him, head cocked a bit to the side, an idea floating behind those far-across-the-distance-and-spaces-between-us eyes of his. Remus squints at him. He squints back. And then...

“Let’s play a game,” he suggests, coming in from the farthest corner of left field Remus could imagine.

And Remus is grateful that he is a decently stoic person in general, because there sure has been a lot running through his mind since he got into the elevator and he wants to acknowledge none of it, including playtime activities with Sirius. 

“What kind of game?” he surprises himself, asking with a laugh that sounds so effortless that he deserves a trophy. And honestly, whatever Sirius has in mind sounds easier than these attempts at conversation he’s been blundering through, so bring it on.

Sirius unclips his leather bag, digging out a couple of notebooks before tossing one to Remus and keeping one for himself. “Pictionary,” he supplies as Remus catches it. There are notes upon notes upon notes scribbled in it, diagrams charted out to identify what evidence is admissible for whatever case this notebook belongs to. And to say they are ‘scribbled’ is actually doing the beautiful penmanship a disservice, Remus thinks, his eyes tracing the long elegant loops and swerves of his handwriting. “You can just flip those pages back,” Sirius breaks him out of it, and Remus really shouldn’t be reading that information anyway, “and here’s a pen,” he tacks on.

Thank God Remus looks up in time for a successful catch, because being hit in the face with it was not how he wanted his morning stuck in an elevator to go. But he does catch it, like the pro he is, and flips the pages back to find the first blank one. Because apparently they are playing Pictionary now, which, luck be a lady tonight, drawing is actually right up Remus’ alley. 

“I’ll go first,” Sirius puts out, and Remus looks up to find Sirius’ head tilted down while he focuses on the notepad that he’s got facing aggressively away from Remus now. “Just going to do something random. I’m actually a pretty decent artist, so this will be really fun.”

“Me too, actually,” Remus throws back, glad that Sirius had found this common ground without knowing it, and grateful the man volunteered to break the ice first. Sirius hums in interest as a lock of black hair falls in front of his focused face, and Remus uses that as a cue to elaborate further. “I’ve always enjoyed sketching as a hobby, but it comes and goes in phases. I’ll spend a year sketching every day, and then won’t touch a pencil for months.”

“What do you draw?” Sirius asks, and although he speaks the question as an aside to what he is really focused on, there is clear interest in his tone. 

“A bit hard to describe, but surreal compositions mostly. Some photorealism. I like spending a lot of time with a piece, so most of what I come up with is very detailed,” Remus answers, lengthening his legs and crossing them at the ankle. “What about you?”

“Landscapes, the occasional portrait if I’m inspired enough,” he adds, eyes flickering up at Remus for a moment before dropping back down to his art. “Would have loved to have majored in art in undergrad, and I almost had enough classes for it, but I didn’t think it would look as impressive as economics on my law school application.” Ever the practical one, Remus can sympathize with that thought process, and he lets out a hum. “But,” Sirius adds slowly, squinting harder at the page for a moment and finishing some little detail, “the joke was on me because your major doesn’t matter half as much as your GPA does.”

“Damn, that’s something I regret from my college days too. I would have had a great time taking more art classes, far more than the math minor I got considering the field I ended up in,” he rambles, noticing Sirius’ eyebrows arc up at that piece of information as he shifts his hand over to a different part of the page. “Then again, I found an incredibly professor who made the subject accessible—“ 

“A rarity for differential equations, poor things,” Sirius says of it, nose still in his drawing.

“Right,” Remus agrees wholeheartedly. “So really, I guess I didn’t really have a choice in the matter.”

Sirius lifts his chin and looks at him for a moment, and half of Remus is dying to know what he is thinking. But the other half, not so much. “I don’t think you can ever go wrong with math… but yeah, learned a lot about technique from the art classes. Kind of went in with only a basic concept of texture and form, and now those are the elements that really speak to me,” he concludes, placing his pen on the floor as he lifts the drawing up for himself to inspect. “I think you’ll be impressed,” he tacks on, turning the picture around.

And color Remus intrigued, because he loves nothing more than seeing focused talent at work. “I can’t want to see—” 

And _oh my God._ Remus bursts out into uninhibited laughter. After 5 seconds of it, there are tears already forming in his eyes from the absolutely horrendous nightmare of a sketch Sirius is holding up that completely defies what he was expecting — a sketch that, had he seen it in any other scenario, he would have assumed it was drawn by a four-year-old child, except it’s way worse.

It’s truly _funny,_ and Remus doubles over the moment he glances to Sirius, who’s just watching him with blank angelic innocence, and he cannot help but think that the whole set-up leading to this was truly masterful. And the picture… is probably of some sort of animal in a habitat, but he isn’t really sure. He’s thrown way off by the Christmas tree looking things that the creature is eating from, but it has a long skinny neck, so it must be— 

“I cannot tell if it’s a giraffe,” Remus starts when his breathing begins calming down and he straightens his limbless body back upright, “or a polka dotted fucking dinosaur.” But speaking the words out loud and seeing this trainwreck in the hands of someone so otherwise totally put together just sets him off all over again, and his ability to do language just devolves into more laughter at the end. His ribs are beginning to hurt now, and good lord, he has not laughed this hard in ages. 

Sirius up until that moment had been able to keep it together somehow, but Remus’ question sends him over the edge as his face breaks out into his own burst of laughter, and he bites his lip as he peeks at the drawing, then explains reasonably, “I couldn’t remember what kind of markings giraffes have, but I know that they sort of have a polka dot vibe.” Then his eyes take on a serious faraway look as he glances back at Remus. “Or wait. They do have markings, right?”

And oh fuck. It’s all too much, and even the picture gets worse/better the longer he looks at it. Its eyes are two wildly different sizes. “Well the only thing that makes me pretty sure it’s a giraffe and not a dinosaur is the tail — there’s no way you’d draw it like that if you were trying for a dinosaur,” he says with pure exasperation, and then after a sad cry and a long inhale, “What even is that?”

Sirius purses his lips at Remus’ reference and flips the picture around fully now to look at it for a few seconds. “Is that not what they look like?” 

And that’s it, Remus falls over to the side, catching himself with his forearm as he buckles over with laughter. “That’s a horse’s tail,” he manages to communicate, and only by the grace of God. 

Sirius’ mouth pulls up into a gaping smile. “Oh,” he puts out, looking happier than a clam. 

“Have you ever even seen a giraffe? And I’m honestly asking you that,” Remus manages, only now noticing that the giraffe has lips, and really coming to terms with the fact that he drew an animal that lives in the Savannah inexplicably munching on a pine tree.

Sirius suddenly laughs again, quieter now, but his body shakes more erratically with mirth this time, and it is absolutely infectious. Remus gets another dose of it, truly in fear that he may actually lose his ass from laughing this fucking hard. 

“Okay, okay,” Remus gets out, bringing his palms up to his face to wipe away the moisture around his eyes. “Draw something else now,” he stipulates breathlessly, and then after a pause, “Draw your favorite thing to do during the weekend.”

“Yes sir,” Sirius agrees with a nod, “I’m sure you’ll be extremely impressed yet again.” He sets his notebook on the ground before leaning forward and divesting himself of his suit jacket. He hangs it haphazardly from the handrail behind him and then reaches his arms forward in a stretch, interlacing his fingers and pushing them out in front of him.

“Stretching this time? Getting ready to pull out the big guns now?” Remus chides, to which Sirius throws him back a smirk. “This must be how your opposing counsel feels whenever a trial is about to start.” 

“I did tell you I have a reputation,” he answers matter-of-factly as his left hand gets back to work on whatever masterpiece Remus’ eyes are to be graced with next. He wonders how a man with such alluring penmanship simultaneously has the drawing ability of a sea cucumber. “And it’s your turn next,” Sirius pauses to glance up and lock in on Remus. “This is a collaborative effort, not a one man show,” he gets onto him, gesturing between them with his pen. “No free rides here.”

Remus exhales as his mind sidles up to the edge and cannonballs right to conclusions. “Noted,” he manages to say, and it’s a more difficult task than it looks, considering he’s confronted with the purest example that not all treasure is silver and gold, mate. But his one word response is enough for Sirius, and he shoots him an easy nod and gets back to work. 

“Same question for you if you want to get started, since you actually have some sort of technique,” Sirius offers as he scribbles something in the corner of his page. “I do want to know what Remus Lupin does with his time off.”

“Alright,” he answers before turning his attention down to the blank page in front of him, and it’s a rather easy first assignment given he knows exactly what he likes to do on a typical weekend if left up to his own devices. And since cleaning isn’t the most inspiring subject to create art around, he settles on his other favorite weekend routine.

And he isn’t rushing his hand, because he really does enjoy the process and where have they to get to anyway. There’s a lulling effect to the movement as he outlines the thin wheels first, then transitions to the angular body. He decides to keep it simple since he’s using a pen and focus more on nailing the perspective, but allows himself some details of the image just because he is having such an enjoyable time; the brand painted on the frame in bold block letters, the reflection of light against the lacquered metal surface, the ratty tape circling around the round handles that reminds him he should probably replace that soon. Minutes pass by, and only when he looks up does he register that Sirius is still in this elevator with him, slouched comfortably against the wall with a hand on his knee, giving no indication that he’s been watching anything other than Remus and for who knows how long. 

“Sorry, you’re probably already done,” he realizes, setting the pen down quickly and determining that his sketch is more than good enough for pictionary. Far too good, actually. He’d clearly gotten carried away. 

“Oh, I’ve been done for a while,” Sirius touts as his fingers tap idly on his knee. “I’ll go first, lets get this out of the way,” he offers, turning his notepad to reveal another absolute beauty worthy of the MOMA.

Remus closes his eyes and shakes with quiet laughter for a solid five seconds before opening them back up and squinting to really analyze the artwork in front of him. “I mean, that’s a beautiful ski slope,” Remus points out, referring to the one line sloping down along the page. “And thanks to those lines you drew on the bottom of that stick figure’s feet I was able to figure out what was going on here.”

“Can you tell that it’s a double black diamond, Remus?” he quizzes. “Experts only.”

Remus hums and nods, probably similar to how he would answer had a child asked him the same question, and leans forward with a squint. “I can tell because of the guy lying with ‘x’s over his eyes at the bottom.”

“Yeah, that’s me three years ago, and this is me now,” his finger moves from the dead skier at the bottom to the smiling stick figure with lines-for-poles in his circles-for-hands positioned at the top of the hill.

“A triumphant story, no doubt,” Remus says, doing all he can to request the story with his eyes alone.

And it works. “Some young kid, probably about six, swerved in front of me and was out of control, so I had to throw myself over to the side or I would have paralyzed us both,” Sirius tells the story. “I tore my ACL _and_ developed a disdain for parents who bring their children on runs they aren’t ready for just so that they aren’t hindered by, oh, _parenting,”_ he adds with particularly humorous gusto on the last word. And then, a little bit softer, “But look at me now,” he goes wistful, motioning to the stick with a smile that resembles a toppled over ‘D’, “healed and ready to take on the world.”

A blink. “Impressive,” Remus gives him, to which he hums and sets the notebook down. But Remus really needs to know, “Did ski patrol have to pull you back to the lodge on one of those cot things?”

A soft laugh, and then a deep inhale. “They did have to pull me back on a _toboggan.”_ And right, that’s what they were called. “And once James — or ‘Jim’ as you know him — figured out I could move my toes, he took quite the compilation of pictures and videos. You should have seen the looks of sympathy I got on the way in… like I was a dead man walking. Or, ‘cotting’ rather, in your words.”

And Remus laughs at that, giving his head a quick shake in the process. “Sounds like my nightmare, which is maybe why I’ve never really progressed beyond the blues. I’m too cautious.” 

“Well, you’re the one with the fresh, untarnished ACLs. So more power to you,” Sirius gives him and then nods after a beat, “Your turn, let’s see this masterpiece.”

“Oh right,” Remus adds as he remembers the drawing he is holding in his hand. He flips the pad around, laughing at the immediate reaction that Sirius assembles onto his face. It’s uninhibited disbelief bordering on disgust.

“What the hell,” he says with a shake of his head, indignation raging behind those tempestuous eyes. “You’re so good?”

“I mean, one of us wasn’t lying,” Remus throws out as he moves a hand between the two of them.

“Objection,” Sirius whispers as he pushes his upper body forward to get a better look, resting his forearms on top of his outspread knees as he leans forward. He looks at the drawing, and then over Remus. Back to the drawing, then up at Remus again, punctuated with one conclusive nod. “You look like a cyclist,” he settles on. “How long do you usually ride for?”

“Saturdays are my long rides,” Remus answers. “I typically go beyond 50 miles. And then I bike to work during the week, weather permitting.”

“Fun,” Sirius comments, crossing his arms contentedly now.

“It is,” Remus says with feeling, already looking forward to the weekend right around the corner. “The bike paths make it so navigable so I have to take advantage.”

“How very sensible,” Sirius offers, and Remus, of course, agrees with that sentiment and takes it for the compliment it is, before the other man adds, “I trust you wear the spandex shorts?”

Remus pauses, feeling his eyebrows pull up and around at the absurdity of the question. “Of course?” he supplies and he gets a knowing nod in return. “Well, except when I ride to work, then it’s just whatever I’ve got on,” he ends, shrugging vaguely.

Sirius’ head ticks to the side. “Oh? Pretty casual environment where you work, then? Assuming you’re not cycling around town in a suit,” he says as he gestures at his own general aura.

“No, we’re literally as casual as possible,” he clarifies, amused by the image of a bunch of suited people laying in bean bag chairs on his floor. “The office is uptown, and the gray hoodie and jeans look is a real thing.”

“That’s right, I think I know the one,” Sirius replies with bright eyes, saying the company’s name aloud to which Remus confirms with a nod. “I have a couple of friends from law school there now. I think one is focused on privacy and the other employment law,” he muses before asking, “How do you like it?”

“There’s a good chance I’ve worked with the first friend, if they’re focused on the data privacy side of the house,” Remus comments as an aside, “Virtually anyone related to a controversial space gets to experience the joy of working with the PR team on the regular.” Sirius appears to be putting that together and gives a nod. “And I do love it. The work itself is great, partially because the people are great and we collaborate so well together,” Remus continues, and glances up at a scuffed mark on a metal panel in thought for a moment, “The specific PR piece I could probably take or leave, frankly, but I do like that we are sometimes reacting to news and have to work fast to issue a statement for damage control. The urgency is fun to me.”

Sirius smiles sagely and waves a hand. “It’s all coming together now,” he says as if the world’s mysteries are being answered in front of his very eyes.

Remus snorts a laugh. “Oh is it now?”

Sirius grins in response, and then, a pensive tone more measured now, “So what do you like most about your specific field? What is the one thing you would miss the most if you were doing something else?”

Remus gives a short hum, as his answer is already clear. “I appreciate the writing aspect the most — any career that lets me think and communicate in metaphors for a living is,” and he lifts an ‘OK’ hand gesture, “where I want to be.”

Sirius laughs at that last part, but he seems to get it. “I understand the love of, we’ll call it ‘flowery language’ to make a point, too,” he says. “But right, I’ve often wondered what it would be like to get work done with the same group of people every day and form that team bond — to work collaboratively as a unit instead of being part of a group of attorneys who are frankly stretched too thin.”

“Yeah, it seems like each attorney is mostly flying solo here,” Remus comments.

Sirius nods. “It’s partially the nature of the job. But on top of that, because courts are so backed up, being a prosecutor rarely has that collaborative element to it, particularly on the majority of the cases we are assigned — so I scratch that itch with Francy and Deb and the others,” adds, smiling for it, and Remus nods when he recalls how friendly he is to everyone at the courthouse, who Remus realizes now really are his colleagues. “We have our junior attorneys too, of course, and I try to mentor them when I can, give them some perspective I wish I would have had when I was starting out, but I honestly don’t have too much time for that type of thing, as much as I wish I did.”

“Did you ever think about other areas of law?” Remus asks, “Where that might be a little more doable?”

“No,” Sirius shakes his head without pausing for a single beat. He reaches up to loosen his tie, seemingly settling right into the long wait they’ve embarked on, talking through it as he moves on to undo the top button with one hand. “It was always criminal law for me, and it was always prosecution.” 

And Remus understands the desire for comfort, he really does, but at what fucking cost? “Why specifically?” he forces his brain cells to cooperate with his mouth.

Sirius pauses, looking thoughtful for a full five seconds before he poses a question to Remus. “Have you ever had to hire an attorney?” 

Remus shakes his head. “No, thankfully.”

“That’s good,” Sirius says with his eyebrows raised for emphasis. “There is a lot about the legal process, a lot of downsides that a person cannot fully understand until they experience it for themselves.” He pauses, nodding to himself more than Remus, and continues on a moment later. “I’m happy you haven’t, and I hope you never do, because it can be the most soul-sucking helpless thing somebody ever experiences in his life,” he concludes, and then after another thought hits him, “And that is when they can actually afford representation.”

“Really?” Remus asks, feeling a little spooked.

Sirius breaths out a laugh. “Really. And that’s when you can even get into the court system,” he tacks on. Remus looks at him curiously, and that must do enough to convey his interest telepathically, because Sirius expounds on it a couple of seconds later. “There are so many wrongs that people do not have the resources to pursue on their own, and because money can be such a prerequisite to justice in civil court — contingency fees excluded — for a lot of people, the only way to get a sense of justice is through the criminal law system,” he explains, and the words come so easily for him. So sincerely too. “I mean… can you imagine being the victim of a wrongdoing where so much is taken from you? And you feel like you can’t do anything about it? How absolutely helpless you would feel if you have no hope of it being righted, or to at least be acknowledged as being wronged?”

Remus shakes his head. “I really don’t think I can.” 

“I just…” Sirius lets out a breath, “I think it takes away the point of living for some people, feeling hopeless and unheard. And that’s absolutely tragic—“ He stops his train of thought, giving a frantic wave in Remus’ direction as if reading his mind. “And believe me, I know more than anybody that there are flaws in the system. It is backed up, plea deals often have a bad reputation for taking advantage of defendants who don’t know any better, and,” he sends a knowing look to Remus, “it’s inefficient as hell.”

Remus hums and gives a massive nod of acknowledgement before he can stop himself. But the words resonate with Remus, and he feels drawn to the energy that Sirius speaks with, because it’s so rare these days to find someone who cares this much. Especially about things that matter.

“But that’s exactly why the criminal justice system needs good attorneys,” Sirius concludes simply. “It needs prosecutors who will drop cases when the evidence isn’t there for trial, and it needs prosecutors who will pursue justice for those who cannot afford to get it anywhere else — whether that’s due to violent crimes, white collar crimes, identity theft, or whatever. It needs prosecutors who will accomplish those things in a timely manner, because for a lot of people, justice delayed is justice denied.” He pauses, stopping himself for a moment and taking a breath. “Being unheard is what breeds anguish and resentment.” 

Remus breathes in, unsure how to respond to a topic he is so appreciative to hear about, but so personally inexperienced in. It’s a moment where he is happy to sit there, just listening, grateful for the information that he not only finds interesting in the moment, but that he will undoubtedly reflect on later as well. 

“And on top of all that,” Sirius goes on, as though he has just remembered another point. “I can’t imagine anything more uninspiring than defending a company against an antitrust suit, call me unenlightened, so corporate law was a big no from the get-go.”

“Yeah, I can totally see that too,” Remus offers up, laughing a little, despite really not knowing much about him, at how unnatural it would be to see Sirius calculating legal risk and trade-offs for business decisions instead of crafting deals and making arguments. “I suspect your soul would die a little every day.”

“Same,” Sirius drawls. “But _christ,_ a nap pod and massage chairs do sound nice?” 

Remus tilts his head to the side, really taking Sirius in, calculating in his mind. Sirius blinks back at him, clearly unbothered. “You don’t come off as much of a napper to me.” 

A yelp of laughter — it really is a nice sound — and he recovers quickly. “Guilty as charged,” he answers, like a nerd who loves his profession far too much. “But I would try to make myself love them if I had that sweet setup.”

Remus can’t disagree there, so he just scrunches his nose and gives a pitying nod toward the nap podless one of the two of them. And since he has the opportunity, “Before we move on completely from coworkers, why was Francy in such a good mood today?” he simply has to ask, and that was a smooth enough transition he thinks. “Did you spike her Starbucks? Bribe her with enough money to buy a new car?” Sirius snorts. “She let me right on through without a second thought despite the fact that I was Enemy Number One yesterday.”

Sirius laughs a little darkly now. “Oh, that’s how she normally is, don’t let first impressions fool you,” he says, waving his hand. “Yesterday was an anomaly and you were the unlucky person she took some of it out on.” 

Remus’ face is full of apprehension, with the memory of yesterday’s treatment still fresh in his mind. Being bitch slapped around by a woman half his size in front of a crowd is not a memory that will fade easily for him. “Was it though?” Remus says flatly in disbelief, still reeling from the whiplash of it all. “An anomaly?”

“Yeah, really,” he starts slowly, wrapping his arms in a loop around his shin, and when Remus’ expression isn’t budging, he continues, “I guess her mom didn’t come home the night before, and her younger brother needed a ride to school,” he elaborates. “Happens a lot, and the high school is across town so it makes her late to work every time, which isn’t a good look. She’s really at her wit’s end with her mom just not being a responsible parent. She tells me about it sometimes and I listen.”

Remus blows out a gust of air. “Understandable that she’d be upset,” he says, sobered a bit by what he’s hearing. This is yet another good lesson in never assuming you know what someone is going through, he thinks to himself, and although he isn’t sure that justifies turning some random dude into a human punching bag — as someone who is moody when inconvenienced, he gets it. “Is her mom… okay?”

“Eh, yeah, she’s just preoccupied with partying and a new boyfriend, from what Francy tells me, so she picks up the slack; I know a bit about how that is, myself,” Sirius explains with a mild shrug. “So when I ran into her in the parking lot that morning, late and all frazzled, I figured a quick side trip for her favorite beverage was in order.”

Remus hesitates. He wants to ask about the message he dropped in the middle there, but decides to move on, thinking it a little too personal to press on. “Well, I’m impressed — a good deed, and you still had time for a bunch of deals before calendar, uh,” Remus trails off, forgetting the exact word. “Huddle?” he tries. Fuck, no. That’s sports. Sirius just bites his lips down into a thin line securing his reticence, so Remus tries again, “Club?”, Sirius shakes his head, “Assembly? Council?”

Sirius barks out a laugh. “Call, but that was precious,” he corrects him, finally, splaying a hand in a circle in Remus’ direction. “Calendar call, and yes, my time management capabilities are a gift.”

Remus laughs softly, and after a beat, “But really,” he says, “that was kind of you. She clearly appreciated it.”

“Oh I do what I can,” he says, looking back at him with a faint smile, as if it was nothing, really. “Plus, did I mention that she has a blinding hatred for tall blond guys who look exactly like you?” he throws out, catching Remus off guard for a moment. “So that might have had something to do with yesterday.”

Remus gives him a deadpanned look. “You’re hilarious. Really.”

Sirius snorts, and then laughs at the combination of his joke and Remus’ reaction. Then suddenly, Sirius looks like he’s just remembered something. “Okay,” he says, snapping his finger. “Your next assignment is…” he starts, glancing up at the ceiling for a moment before settling on, “If you’re having a bad day, what’s the one thing that can instantly make it better?” Remus huffs a laugh, and Sirius continues, “I mean if you had the most frustrating day from hell — like, say, being stuck in a courthouse all day long — what is something that could turn it all around?”

Remus raises an attitude-laden pointer finger now, and Sirius’ eyes settle on it and blink several times. “For the record, I’m not usually like that either,” he feels the need to explain, bypassing the actual question for now, “it’s like all my pet peeves were jam packed into one garbage day.”

“Uh huh,” Sirius chimes, seemingly unimpressed by this excuse, and then, “draw your answer. Nobody died, you didn’t get injured, and I’m assuming you didn’t lose your job, so I know there is _something_ that could have salvaged the day if given the chance.”

Remus’ gaze narrows in on him, and Sirius smiles at him as if on cue. “Alright,” Remus gives him, tilting his head back against the wall as he thinks about what could have actually made yesterday a better day besides rewriting nearly every single detail of it. Not even a Starbucks would have saved him. He taps the pen on the notepad, finding the question strangely difficult to answer, but after a few more seconds of thought, ultimately settles on a decision.

Remus looks off pensively into the distance, which is no more than five feet away since he’s locked in a small metal box that renders depth perception pointless, but he plays the act all the same, then gets to work. His hand works the pen on the page slowly trying to get all of the proportions correct, biting down on his bottom lip when his mouth starts to betray him and furrowing his brows in feigned concentration. After a minute or two, he tips his head to the side to survey the image, deeming it almost done. He finishes the last stroke and bites down on his lip harder, holding the notebook a foot away to really get a good look. It’s perfect, he thinks, and he glances up at Sirius who has his eyes trained on him now, a small smile starting to form.

“You really got into this one,” Sirius says, lifting his chin that had been resting on his fist in waiting. “Let’s see it.”

Remus leans forward lazily with his elbows resting on his knees and flips the image around, and the reaction he gets from the absolutely intrigued attorney across from him is no disappointment in any sense. 

Sirius sputters something unintelligible, eyes growing wide as recognition sinks in. And then an outburst of laughter — real and unrestrained laughter, bordering on maniacal in a way that Remus cannot help but laugh along to. Remus takes another peek at the drawing, the detailed sketch of the back of a hand, middle finger flipped up as an undeniable ‘fuck you’ to anybody looking at it, and admires his work. He really isn’t half bad at this.

“Listen here,” Remus puts out first while fighting a smile all the while, because Sirius still hasn’t caught his breath, and it doesn’t sound like the laughter is going to die down any time soon. Remus has essentially subdued him for the time being and now the stage is his. He leans forward and points his finger at the marble floor. “I don’t need a life coach, I just need people to do their fucking jobs!”

Sirius has reigned himself in to a soft chuckle now, but the light on his face is still there. “Did I hit a nerve now?” he asks, and the hopeful tone isn’t lost on Remus.

Remus sits up abruptly and waves his hands around in fake frustration that causes Sirius to bite his lip to hold in laughter. “I know what you were trying to do. Some unpleasant dude,” he points to himself, “shows up to your work in a horrible mood because all of these things he cannot control have befallen him that day. And his attitude is shit, he’s pissy, he’s—”

“Letting every little thing around him impact his entire mood?” Sirius cuts in successfully, holding his ribs still.

Remus sends him a look of exasperation, but cuts it short, replacing it with one long deep breath instead, one that works to align his body and mind for epic rant mode. “The day? It was, and I’m not mincing words here, literally borne from my worst fucking nightmare, Sirius,” he says with A Tone, spurred on now by the fact that the man across from him is absolutely losing it again at the hyperbole. “Everything here took two hours longer than it should have, the people I had to listen to for the entire day were…” he pauses, not wanting to sound like too much of a snot, “not the people I would choose to ever hold a conversation with,” he settles on. “And I’m willing to give Francy a pass now, but _somehow_ all of these little things would not go my way, from the stupid fork to the stupid coffee machine to reuniting with my fucking one-night stand from the night before,” Remus only pauses for half a second as Sirius embarks on another grand bout of laughter, “who woke me up with the most god awful song as his alarm clock and who I thought I would never have to face again. So yes. It was a bad day. I got through it. And I don’t need some patronizing words about what I _could have done_ to have a better attitude. Sometimes you just have to fucking get through the day and embrace the suck.”

“Pardon?”

Remus sends him a look of confusion.

“Embrace the what now?”

Remus blinks twice. Not at all amused, unlike the man across from him, who looks jazzed after being delivered that tirade. “Shut up.”

Sirius’ grin grows wider, because somehow that is possible, and Remus wonders if he’s ever had a bad day in his entire life. “I won’t do that. But it is your turn to ask a question now, so you’re out of the hot seat for the time being if that is any consolation at all.”

And as far as consolations go, Remus deems that a passable one.


	4. Day 2, Part II

Remus’ turn to ask a question now.

And well, since he was stuck here, he might as well learn something from someone who knows what they’re talking about. And after that little ride through Memorytown, a more productive, educational topic sounds like something that could soothe Remus’ scarred soul. “Teach me a basic principle of criminal law, Pictionary-style. Like, first day of law school stuff,” he directs the other man. “Assume I don’t know anything because I don’t.” 

“Oh a softball question,” Sirius tuts, already starting to draw something, and really, this should be entertaining through pictures, particularly ones drawn by his far-from-talented hand. He looks up and says, “You get one legal question and then we are going back to more interesting topics, deal?”

Remus blinks. He finds learning about the law from somebody who practices it far more interesting than talking about his own uninspiring hobbies, but no problem, he can understand that talking about one’s work isn’t always a thrill and a half. “Deal.”

Sirius nods and puts about ten more seconds into the drawing before flipping the page and starting in on a new one. His hand is moving fast all over, and in less than two minutes, he has the first page flipped back and is turning it around to face Remus. 

There is a picture of a knife on one side — and Remus is just clever enough to determine that the thick scribbles on the blade are supposed to equal blood — and a mushy oval shape with squiggles inside it on the other. Remus smiles, barely holding in a laugh, and then sits up straighter as he waves to the other man, “Well go on, teach me.”

Sirius clears his throat. Remus is really at attention now. “There are two elements that define a crime under the MPC — the Model Penal Code — which is from where criminal law is derived. The first is the _actus reus_ ,” he says, directing his attention to the page and pointing to the knife, “which refers to the physical act itself. And the second,” he now points to the oval, “is the _mens rea_ , which is the guilty mind, or the mental aspect of the crime—“

“So that’s a brain then?” Remus laughs out as he gestures to the mushy oval shape. 

Sirius looks up at him from under his eyelashes. “Strong deduction, I’m impressed,” he croons out, then gets back to it, “And the _mens rea_ element is really what differentiates criminal court from civil court. There _has_ to be some sort of intent involved for the state to prosecute — barring a few exceptions of course — the level of which depends on the crime being charged.”

“Alright,” Remus nods, because that makes enough sense. The state needs intent for a crime to exist, and there are different levels of intent based on the crime that is charged... “but I do need an example.” Partially true, and partially because he enjoys hearing this man talk about his expertise more than he wants to admit just now.

“I thought you might,” Sirius puts back as he flips the page, revealing another absolute beauty. There is a stick figure lying with ‘x’s over his eyes, black ink puddled on his chest, with another stick figure holding up the knife victoriously in one of his outstretched circle-hands. “Murder is the most basic example, and a crowdpleaser in general.” 

“I have always wondered about this actually,” Remus chimes in, bringing his legs in and crossing them together beneath him as he sits up even straighter. 

Sirius’ eyes find Remus. “It’s one Google search away you know,” he says stiffly out of the corner of his mouth. 

Remus waves his hand. “But it’s so much more fun to have somebody who knows all about it to describe it to me,” he says. “Plus, what else am I going to do stuck in an elevator with an attorney?”

Sirius breathes a laugh, opening his mouth once before shutting it again, and continues, eyes back on the page, “The _actus reus_ element is always the easier element to prove. For murder, it is causing the death of a person, like Patrick experienced from this knife.”

And the elevator just got a whole lot fucking smaller now. “What?”

“Jonas stabbed Patrick here,” Sirius explains again, and now _he_ is taking the tone of one who is communicating with a kindergartener. 

A pause. Remus blinks intently. “Why is his name Patrick?”

Sirius looks mystified by the question, or as though he thinks Remus is crazy. And maybe he is. “Um,” his eyes shift to the other side of the elevator and then back to Remus again, “because I have never met a Patrick that I liked?”

Remus stares at him. And then he realizes that there is no way Sirius could have figured out that his one night stand’s name was indeed Patrick, and it’s merely another fucking inconvenient coincidence out of the Twilight Zone, and he doesn’t know if he is more or less bewildered with that realization. Plus, Sirius makes a good point, because, well, Remus hasn’t either. “Ok,” he concedes.

A minute shake of his head. “Ok?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Remus can hear his own voice lax up now. He raises his eyebrows and makes a prodding gesture, “Carry on.”

Another look, to double-check Remus hasn’t in fact lost his mind, maybe, and then back to the drawing. “Murder requires the highest intent, because it carries the heaviest sentence. Its _mens rea_ is malice, which means that Jonas here,” Sirius points again to his smiling maniac of a stick man, “acted with the purpose of killing Patrick. And that’s a pretty straightforward thing to prove in this example as Jonas stabbing a man in the heart is a good indication that he was stabbing to kill, or at the very least he should have known that stabbing Patrick in the heart would kill him.”

Remus considers this for a moment. “Seems simple enough,” he approves.

“It is in some cases,” Sirius allows, “but it can be a difficult threshold to meet in others, which is why a lot of murder charges get downgraded to manslaughter. If Jonas had stabbed Patrick in the arm — not something that would typically lead to death — but Patrick had some sort of pre-existing medical condition that caused him to die from it anyway, malice would be more difficult to prove. You’d have the _actus reus,_ but any decent defense attorney would be able to prove that the intent to kill wasn’t there.”

Remus hums, digesting this. “So it would be manslaughter,” he says with one nod.

“Most likely, on top of a couple of other charges as well. But the easy formula to keep in mind is unlawful killing plus malice equals murder. And there are a hundred nuances, defenses, and exceptions… but this is Crim 101, elevator style, not to be confused with Yale Law, so that’s as far as we are going to get,” Sirius concludes, now pushing the page up and over the notepad with abandon. And then, a happy sigh and a huge smile. “My turn.”

Remus grabs his notebook off the ground, uncapping the pen and waiting as Sirius chews on the tip of his own. A smile forms itself around it, and the next moment he determines, “Your most embarrassing memory.”

Remus hears himself sigh loudly before he sends the man across from him a look of displeasure, but it doesn’t feel genuine at all. It’s met with a grin, just as he should have known it would be. 

“I have this strange feeling that my pain is amusing to you, correct me if I’m wrong,” he poses, more as a statement than a question.

Sirius bobs a shoulder. “I mean, it kind of is,” he says without hesitation. “If it were real pain you were experiencing, it wouldn’t be. But there is some entertainment value when you’re inconvenienced, or flustered, or merely uncomfortable... I am not going to lie about that.”

“I’m glad something good comes out of it,” Remus finds the silver lining, “and get ready for this one, because it’s the worst.” Sirius’ eyes glint with that schadenfreude he saw in them the day before, and Remus takes that as his invitation to get along with it. A look over at the shut elevator doors remind him of his current predicament and that he might as well play along. 

A deep breath. “So,” he breathes out, a hand waving errantly in the air, and it looks something akin to surrender. He takes a moment to organize his thoughts, to set the stage, and then he starts. “My ex and I had an apartment together, and I had a desk where I’d take early or late work calls from home or whatever. And with the way the living room was set up, I faced a big window,” he gestures with his right hand, “and the rest of the living room and the kitchen and bathroom were behind me and off to the left,” he describes as he left hand motions behind him. “So one morning I had a super early call with a bunch of members of the PR, internal comms, and legal team based in the Netherlands—”

“Oh so just one or two folks,” Sirius tosses out.

“Right, barely anyone,” Remus echoes, surprising himself by really finding his groove now. “It was this big group with two executives, plus a handful of people that I hadn’t met before, and some from my office I work with. So,” he translates, “people I very much wanted to leave a good impression on.”

“Uh oh,” Sirius says, but the smile on his face shows Remus just how badly he is hoping for something amusing to happen. Something horrendous. And he won’t be disappointed.

“And, you know, nothing major,” Remus clarifies, voice trilling in a way that pulls a snort out of Sirius, “I didn’t need to rock their world. Wasn’t trying for a standing ovation. Just wanted them to leave the meeting and think ‘That Remus Lupin has got his shit together. Let’s invite him back’.”

“Naturally, yes,” Sirius raises, then rests a hand under his chin, hiding his mouth in the process.

“Good, good, you’re getting this. So,” Remus carries on, “I plugged in my headphones and logged onto the Zoom while Noah was showering, just an average run of the mill situation so far. We were having a normal meeting, conversation is flowing, and then ten or so minutes in I went off of mute to say something, and it was something really good, I remember — I make it a point to only say something in meetings when it’s going to actually add value—“

“I do get that impression about you,” Sirius throws in, splaying a hand toward his visage briefly. 

Remus inclines his head in acknowledgement. “And I’m gearing up for this gem of a statement, but before I could speak, this deep male voice bellows from behind me, ‘BABE I’M GONNA MAKE PANCAKES.’”, and Remus runs his hand through his hair to give Sirius some time to finish his extremely long snort. “And so I go back on mute as soon as I register that he’s saying fucking ‘pancakes’ and tell him to be quiet because I’m on a call.” 

“Did everyone hear?” Sirius asks, leaning forward like a child who is absolutely enthralled in a story, and honestly, Remus had no idea that he himself was so interesting.

“They heard,” Remus confirms, pausing as he nods and reflects on the memory that he would truly like to fully forget one day. “But that would have been fine if it ended there.”

Sirius bites his lip. “Oh.”

“Evidently he didn’t hear me shushing him, because he pops into the living room a couple of seconds later — towel-drying his hair, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs,” Remus emphasizes that last part and carries on after Sirius finishes sucking in a breath, “and then makes eye contact with me and everyone else on the screen before backing out of the frame slowly like that gif of Homer Simpson.”

Sirius squeezes his eyes shut and his shoulders set to quaking as he collapses in on himself, and Remus is glad he nailed the imagery with that one. “So everybody saw your significant other in all of his glory,” he frames it.

Remus nods, then raises his hand in concession. “And you would think that would be bad enough, right?” he asks, his voice an octave higher than normal because somehow, under some kind of sorcery, he has gotten into this whole storytelling-with-a-stranger-while-stuck-in-an-elevator thing. “You would think it couldn’t possibly get more uncomfortable, right?”

Sirius pauses where he is and blinks about ten times in the span of two seconds. “What. Did somebody speak up and compliment his body or something?”

“I mean that would have been awful,” Remus gives him matter-of-factly. “But what made it the most mortifying moment of my life was that I was not out to anybody I worked with yet.”

Sirius’ eyes grow to the size of sea shells. “Oh God.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s horrible,” he puts out. And then, with calculation, “But also hilarious.”

Remus huffs, but Sirius is right. It is hilarious upon retrospection and Remus fights a losing battle to suppress the small smile forming on his lips. “I was out to my family and friends and it wasn’t something that I was actively hiding. I just didn’t bring up my personal life all that much because… I don’t know, I just didn’t want weird reactions and I like keeping work about work.” 

Sirius shoots him an _mhm_. “So what did they do?”

“During the call? They were merciful,” Remus laughs thinking of the faces that sat blinking at him after his nearly naked boyfriend had exited the screen. “One of the guys from the Netherlands heroically chimed in with a ‘So about the press release,’ and people were more than eager to take the attention off of me.” 

“And after?”

“Most people didn't say anything, which, believe me, I greatly appreciated. A woman I work closely with pinged me afterwards to let me know how hot my boyfriend is, and then miraculously people at my office all suddenly knew my sexuality, but it’s a tech company in the 21st century, so everyone was cool,” Remus elaborates. “It saved me from ever having to bring it up, and that’s what I was avoiding the whole time… which is why I can truly laugh at it now. All in all, not a _horrible_ experience, but for somebody who values his privacy on the highest level, _nightmare.”_

Sirius is leaning forward now, a satisfied smile on his face. “I wish I could have seen your face when he walked into the screen,” he says, wistfully.

Remus eyes him with contempt, and Sirius’ eyes burn even brighter for it. “And enough of that,” he sends a wave in Sirius’ direction. “Same question for you. Your most embarrassing memory.”

Sirius shakes his head easily. “I don’t get embarrassed.”

Remus stares. “Of course you do.”

“Nope,” he retorts easily, “I’m very thick skinned.” And then he pauses for a little while, and Remus remains quiet because there appears to be some sort of train of thought picking up speed in his head at the moment. He laughs to himself, softly, and the smile on his face turns significant. “But I do have an incredible story along those lines that I haven’t thought of in years, so I will draw that,” he decides, completely pleased with himself.

And with that he gets to work, the tiniest bit of his tongue poking through his lips as he focuses on scribbling whatever masterpiece is flowing out of his fingertips. There is something in his demeanor that is even more eager than before, like he really is excited to share this particular memory with him, and Remus is here for it. It’s… cute, even. Sirius turns the page around not a minute later. 

“This is hands-down my absolute favorite memory from law school,” he starts, and Remus is able to ascertain that there is a pepperoni pizza — one giant circle with lines in it covered in many smaller circles — on the left hand side of the page and a phone on the right. 

His eyes finish scanning the page for other clues. “Pizza phone,” Remus articulates with confidence. 

“Exactly,” he confirms, dropping the notepad altogether so that his hands are unencumbered — and by this point, the notebook really is becoming obsolete as this game has morphed more into 20 questions than Pictionary. “I was in some class during 3L year, Trusts and Estates I think, but I could be wrong because it’s been nearly ten years by now. Anyway, it’s a full lecture class, probably about 90 students, and the way that professor worked was she would select one student per class and drill them with questions about the reading.”

“Sounds stressful,” Remus comments with feeling.

He waves it off, “You’re used to it by the third year, and it was actually preferable because once you had your day of being called on, you knew you were free for the rest of the semester. So in this particular class, she had already chosen who was going to be in the hot seat and everybody else in the room was relaxed and fucking off doing whatever—“

“ _Inspiring._ ”

“—and the professor was going back and forth with the student about the rule against perpetuities or something, it was harrowing—,” Sirius cuts himself with a laugh as his body shakes with it too. “Sorry, I haven’t thought about this in years,” he recovers before managing to start up again. “And while the guy is answering some question, somebody’s phone starts speaking,” and he’s laughing hard now, and Remus isn’t sure whether he missed the joke or Sirius just hasn’t gotten to it yet, but he’s a good sport and he gives Sirius one soft chuckle for encouragement. “And it says,” the tone in his voice becomes more robotic, pausing in all the right ways like the instructions from a navigation app, “12 minutes to…” he pauses, pause, pause, “Pizza Hut.” He barely gets the words out before he’s losing it again. “The entire room went silent, professor and student included,” he claims, running a hand through his hair as he recovers, “the volume was loud enough for everyone to hear. The timing of it could not have been more perfect.”

“Oh my God,” Remus gives him, laughing fully now at the thought. He knows it must have been a hundred times funnier in person, but seeing Sirius’ reaction to the mere memory of it makes the story that much more enjoyable. “Did everybody laugh? What did the professor do?”

“ _Everybody_ laughed,” Sirius goes on, eyes full of something that is either madness or brilliance, and Remus doesn’t care which, as long as he can keep looking at them. His smile radiates joy, and once he starts to roll up the left sleeve of his shirt, Remus’ gaze is pulled to his forearm — and sweet holy Jesus, he may have gadgets and gizmos aplenty, but who cares. No big deal. Remus wants more. “The professor laughed. It was the most textbook thing that could have happened — a law student fucking off during class to find the nearest route to a shitty pizza place.” Sirius pauses as Remus’ laughs, picking up a beat later. “My girlfriend at the time was sitting next to me, and I vividly remember the water she spit out all over my shirt when it happened. Caught her mid-drink, and I couldn’t even blame her for it.”

And in the time it takes for a nanosecond to pass, his stomach drops. Because even though he had not consciously hoped for the opposite — the odds were never in his favor anyway — he’s fucking disappointed all the same when the one man he has formed an attraction to, reluctant as it may have been, turns out to be straight. For fuck’s sake, he hadn’t even recognized just how much he was drawn to Sirius until he found out how far out of the realm of possibility it actually was. And although he has no idea what he’d do if the alternative was true, that doesn’t really matter in the moment; because right now, he’s stuck here with him, in a tiny elevator, needing to focus all of his energy into neither looking nor sounding affected by this information. And it’s _difficult._

Some number of seconds must pass because the next thing Remus hears is, “You alright?” And fuck, he’s already failing. Time for damage control.

He clears his throat and nods, going for casual. “Yeah, I’m just pondering how mortified the person whose phone spoke must have been, it’s amazing,” he says, and his voice sounds pleasant enough.

“I think he was proud of it actually?” Sirius answers, still seemingly holding in a laugh as he rolls up his other sleeve. “Not that he did it on purpose, but it really was serendipitous timing.”

Remus hums, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to come up with anything to say to keep things going normally between them. “So was law school fun as a whole then?” he settles on.

Sirius gives a shrug at that. “It was all encompassing. Your job had to be school and then your hobbies were whatever extracurricular legal activities you were involved in — for me it was moot court,” he explains. “And your social circle was your class, which was an interesting dynamic because they were also your competition since _everything_ is graded on a curve. So if you weren’t 100 percent committed in every aspect of your life, you were going to get left behind.”

Remus nods, his gaze settling on the corner of the elevator across from him, not really taking in this new information, but working hard to look like he was. He can feel Sirius’ eyes on him. “Yeah, that’s a lot,” he comments, and he knows it’s vapid, but it’s the best he can do at the moment and it seems to get the job done, for Sirius nods in return.

“But all in all, practicing law is far preferable to law school for me,” he continues after a round of silence. “The real world has a way of humbling people, and by my 3L year, I was beyond tired of hearing opinions from people who had only ever lived in books before. And no one loves to talk as much as law students.”

And Remus can’t help but laugh at that, the idea of 200 Erin Brockaviches in a law school class, all battling for a place in the hierarchy of most loquacious — and therefore, seemingly knowledgeable — law students. He would go insane in that setting. Because he knew better than most that eagerness to speak did not always equate to actual intelligence, even if it did get the most attention.

He turns back to Sirius. “Okay,” he says, “Your turn now?”

Sirius raises his eyebrows and trains his gaze on Remus, and if it is a curious look, he wouldn’t know because he doesn’t stick around to analyze it any more deeply, “I guess so.”

“We can ditch the notebooks altogether, right?” he asks, eyeing the materials on the ground, and already scooping up the pad of paper and handing it over to Sirius, who moves slowly, but takes it. 

“Sure,” Sirius says, setting the book to his side, and then he looks thoughtful. A moment later he comes up with the question, “What do you regret not doing this past year?”

Remus lets out a sigh at this. A real one now because what does it even matter anymore. “I don’t really regret not doing anything, Sirius. My life isn’t absolutely perfect — I certainly do regret letting my best friend convince me to get on gay dating apps because that has been a disaster every step of the way,” he says, pausing to toss a _look_ over to Sirius since the other man was lucky enough to see that first hand the day prior, “but when I want something, I make it happen. I love my job. I have a routine that keeps me healthy and mentally happy. I see my family a lot. Everything else is just simply out of my control I guess, and those aren’t things I waste any time regretting.”

“That’s great, Remus,” Sirius gives back, only sincereness in his voice. 

Remus inhales deeply as he gives him a nod, and there has been a noticeable shift in the feel of the space. More subdued now. Remus’ fault, no doubt. 

Sirius probably feels it too, Remus thinks, that’s usually the thing with a shift in the air — it goes both ways. However, the other man doesn’t seem to be bothered, but he’s saved from having to find out for sure, because Sirius’ phone explodes with text messages beside him a second later with the perfect diversion. He takes hold of his phone and reads the screen, his face turning into one of concentration. 

He spends a while flipping through the notebook that Remus had been using for Pictionary, back to the front pages of it, reviewing his notes in depth before typing to the person on the receiving end. The junior attorney probably — Kate, Remus thinks he mentioned her name as being.

And this whole interruption is completely welcomed by Remus, as it gives him a respite from the roller coaster of emotions he realizes he just survived. It’s fine, he tells himself, jaw working as he thinks. He had been ridiculous for a while there, getting carried away with the ease of their conversation, but that’s all it was. Nothing more than that. And now he knows; he can adjust his expectations. 

He catches Sirius squinting at him for a second, his hands stilled on the keypad of his phone. The man is calculating something in his mind, that much is clear. Remus assumes that he’s mulling something over related to the notebook, so he looks away, giving his neck a stretch before falling back into his thoughts during the following bout of silence.

It had felt good for a while there though; he hadn’t even realized it. This was something he hadn’t felt in a very long time, so at least he knew that part of himself was still alive in there. He wasn’t completely broken in that sense, and that was a win in itself maybe. And yet… it still felt like shit. He would get over it, but no self pep talk in this moment, in this tiny elevator, was going to make it feel anything other than that.

“Sorry about that,” Sirius breaks the silence, and even his voice sounds more subdued now. Remus isn’t sure how many minutes have gone by. Five maybe? Ten tops. Remus waves a hand, the universal gesture not to worry about it. “I, uh,” Sirius clears his throat, setting his phone down and turning it face down. “Yeah, I guess it’s your turn now.”

And right. They were playing a game. Alright, his turn to ask a question.

He throws out without thinking, “What’s your biggest regret in life?” And maybe that’s a more personal question than Sirius was expecting, because his eyes glaze over a bit as he takes in a long breath and then looks up at the ceiling. He rocks forward, just barely, and his fingers tap on his knee, and Remus feels like he either has him stumped or went too personal. Good going. “I can ask a different quest—“

“Don’t you dare,” Sirius puts an end to that thought with one dry laugh. “It’s a far better question than having me explain inchoate crimes,” he mumbles as he reaches for the notepad that Remus had thought they were done with. “I’m just going to draw this one out because it feels right.” He looks up at Remus, “It’s therapy you understand.”

And Remus is nervous, because no, he doesn’t, but he nods anyway. He doesn’t know if he hit on a subject that Sirius is actually taking seriously, or if this is similar to the giraffe ploy — a build up to reel Remus right on in for some elaborate joke. Or maybe both. But what does it matter really, Remus might as well stop wondering and let it be what it is. 

The sketching doesn’t take long — as none of his sketches do, of course — and Remus is surprised when instead of just flipping the notepad around, he scoots his body, gracefully somehow, across the span of the elevator and sits against the same wall as him, and Remus, per usual, has no idea what is happening.

He looks down to his left at the drawing, and although it is still comically bad, he can get the jist of it. And it is _interesting,_ so he isn’t even tempted to laugh. “So that is you, I presume,” he says, reaching over to point to the stick figure man with long black lines for hair wearing a bow tie. 

“Correct. And this,” he points to the female stick figure in a large triangle dress who is holding stick Sirius’ stick hand, “is my law school girlfriend on our wedding day,” he finishes. Remus looks down to Sirius’ left hand to find that his ring finger is bare. He looks back up, and there is no doubt that Sirius had watched him do it. A beat later, “Trust me, the actual picture looks just like this,” he adds.

Remus laughs through his nose. “I can’t imagine any picture being as beautiful as _this.”_

“I know, but it’s true,” he confirms matter-of-factly, shooting Remus a look with such faux sincerity that Remus can’t help but shake his head at. “So we will call her Jane,” Sirius starts up again, referencing the stick bride with another gesture of his hand, “because that is, in fact, her name.”

What a guy. “Seems reasonable,” Remus comments.

Sirius hums through a smile as he turns to look at Remus. “The biggest regret of my life,” he speaks with conviction — sure and measured, “is that I married Jane.” A pause. “And I regret it so deeply because of how much I loved her.” 

Remus doesn’t understand what that means, and he really does not know what to say because they went from talking about polka dotted animals all the way to failed relationships in a single elevator ride. But then again, Remus had been the one to pose the question. So he asks, “It didn’t work out, I take it?”

Sirius laughs, obviously at Remus’ utter astuteness. “No it did not,” he enunciates slowly. He takes one long deep breath, there is a pause, and then he elaborates, “A lot changes when you get married,” he talks softly, knowingly, but it doesn’t have the tone of a lecture. More like Sirius is speaking to himself, and Remus just happens to be privy to it. “Things you thought you could change about yourself to be with the other person feel more glaring. And eventually, if the fit isn’t right, you feel more and more trapped until you can’t pretend to be something you aren’t anymore, no matter how much you love the person.”

Remus hums, not completely able to relate, but able to understand all the same. Because he was nearly in his mid-thirties now, he’d had enough time to observe other relationships to see this phenomenon before. “So what was it?” he throws out — a question he would normally keep to himself, too worried about overstepping his bounds — because what has he really got to lose? Nothing. Tack on the fact he’s stuck in an elevator with a man he’ll never see again, and his filter is totally gone. “What couldn’t change?”

“Well,” Sirius starts, and it _almost_ sounds nervous, but Remus doesn’t believe it. Remus counts 10 seconds tick by, and then, “I was a gay man married to a woman... and no matter how much I loved everything about her, that was never going to change.”

…

Remus closes his eyes. He squeezes them together, taking a deep breath of his own before opening them back up. 

...

And _Jesus CHRIST, Hallelujah,_ it’s like baptismal water has just been dumped over Remus’ unsuspecting head and he’s reborn. He’s back in fucking business. This piece of information has single-handedly brought him back up where they walk, up where they run, up where they spend all day in the sun. His exterior is unfazed, he is regulating his breathing, he is _fighting_ to keep his face from showing his cards, now that he knows what his cards even are — using everything he knows about diplomacy and calm communication for this specific moment in time — as his blood is absolutely _singing_ to be part of this man’s world _._ He holds his face still while the fire of euphoria within surges through to every limb of his body, keeping his expression even, steady. Compassionate even. It’s masterful.

“Oh,” he hears himself mutter convincingly, “I’m so sorry,” which is rich because he is _absolutely not sorry._ He’s not sorry, or maybe he is in a sense, because he knows enough to realize there is a whole lot more to the story, it’s nuanced and it’s complex and Remus finds he is now invested in hearing everything about the man sitting just two feet from him now that he knows the glorious punchline. “How did that all happen?” he asks, and this time he’s genuine. He’s had his moment of inward celebration, and now he needs to know more. He needs to know everything. “I mean, you must have known by the time you got married, right?”

Sirius gives him a hum for that. “I knew,” he speaks slowly, with calculation. “I knew, but I didn’t _want_ it to be true,” he explains with a simplicity that a younger Remus could understand completely. “I thought embracing it would make life that much harder, and it wasn’t something I wanted to accept. So I pushed it to a far corner of my mind. It was always there, I always felt it, but I hoped that if I ignored it for long enough, it would go away.”

Remus laughs out a breath, but it’s not a happy laugh. It’s not exactly sad, but more of a show of commiseration, because what a way to describe something that Remus has never had to put into his own words before, but that he knows all the same. “I get it,” he offers simply. “I really do.”

That’s all it really takes for Sirius to shoot him a look of appreciation, which Remus accepts gladly. “And I fucked around with some guys during undergrad, only casually, because if anything ever got romantically serious, that’s when I would have to really acknowledge it. So I just went with the flow, kept things light. And then I met Jane in law school,” Sirius says, suddenly adopting a blank look and sending him three blinks, his voice laced with sarcasm, “and she seemed like the most incredible solution to all of my problems.”

Remus’ mouth pulls itself wide as he sucks in a skeptical breath of air through his teeth. He follows it by a word that sounds something like, “Oof.”

Sirius’ face returns to normal, a smile on his face despite the sensitive topic, as though he is really appreciating his audience of one, and he shakes lightly with laughter. “Oof indeed. I think you can see where this is going,” he pauses for beat, which Remus fills with a reluctant nod, and then continues, “Of course I didn’t see her as that at the time. At the time she was this beautiful breath of fresh air who was clever in and out of the classroom, absolutely no fear of anybody or anything. Undeniably beautiful in an effortless way. And we were very happy for a time. I thought that whole _phase_ I went through had passed. Or at the very least, that Jane was a good enough match in other ways for me that it wouldn’t matter anymore.”

Sirius stops speaking after that, and Remus picks up on the fact that it’s time for him to respond. But he lets the silence sit for a while as he thinks about everything that Sirius just told him. And it’s comfortable, the silence, it’s oddly and unexplainably comfortable. “That must have been horrible for you,” Remus finally speaks, “especially if you really did love her.”

Sirius hums low. “That was the worst part.”

“I can see that. It sounds agonizing to know that you aren’t happy, that things aren’t right, but now somebody else is involved too, who you have made a huge commitment to. So you’re the bad guy, even if you never consciously meant to be. And it’s somebody who has deep feelings and dreams about your future together, that you probably still had in some way too,” Remus contemplates, finding it strangely easy to relate to the story. He’d been there too before, to some extent, and now he’s extrapolating. “I mean… fuck, it’s a lot.”

“It was an awful ending to a relationship that was so significant in my life. And I really, really regret that I did that to her,” Sirius concludes in simple terms, bringing it right back to the original question he was asked.

Remus considers pausing there, considers letting Sirius guide the conversation instead, maybe choose a question for Remus to answer now, but he doesn’t get the feeling he needs to. So he pushes forward. “What was the last straw then?” he asks, genuinely curious. “What finally made you realize you couldn’t keep pretending anymore?”

Sirius considers that for a moment. “Well it wasn’t that I was pretending,” he says, taking on a pensive look. “I think that is the wrong word. I wanted so badly for myself to change. When I told her I loved her and wanted a life with her, I meant it. And I thought that if I just kept with it, that over time, I would forget that other part of me. But…” a laugh, “it actually had the opposite effect.”

“I can see that,” Remus says from experience, “The more you fight who you are, the more prominent that part of you becomes.”

“Exactly,” Sirius goes on, and Remus stays silent, waiting. “So the first six months were good, but as time went on, it was like my subconscious starting rebelling. I didn’t want to be at home as much, I didn’t want make good memories with her, I didn’t want to keep hyping myself up for a sex life that just left me feeling more and more dissatisfied every time. All of that solidified how absolutely trapped I was, and it was all because of choices I had made.”

Remus leans his head back against the wall at that. “And so then you had the guilt of not being a good husband tacked on top of that too,” he ascertains.

“Exactly,” Sirius laughs again, like Remus had hit the nail on the head. “I know I fucked up by getting the two of us into that position, trust me, it will haunt me forever. And I was miserable, which just added a layer on top of it. I wanted to want it, but I couldn’t.”

“I mean…” Remus pauses, recalling the recent words of a very wise man, “She had to have known too right? People typically know who they are marrying.”

Sirius releases a long breath, giving that a second of thought. “Maybe,” he offers. “She knew about my past, but I hadn’t given any indication I was anything but head over heels for her. From her perspective, why would I have asked her to marry me if I wasn’t sure?” He pauses, throwing out a shrug before speaking again. “But I don’t know, I think there’s something extremely significant about trying to ignore something that is such a part of your core. It’s like it poisons all of the good things until you acknowledge who you really are.”

Remus clicks his tongue, because yeah, that’s a fucking truth bomb right there, spoken in the most articulate and direct way he has ever heard before. The man knows how to analyze and extract a meaningful conclusion. 

“So to answer your question,” Sirius continues after he gives Remus a minute for everything to sink in, because wisdom really does come from experience apparently, “things were not good at home. We would pick fights with each other over the stupidest things. I felt like I was walking on eggshells, I _know_ she felt like she was walking on eggshells. Everything we had been able to connect on before we got married had been dampened, and I don’t know if you can relate, but being lonely while in a relationship is far more miserable than being lonely outside of one.”

Remus blinks. Damn. Right again. “I can,” he says, “I mean I can’t completely relate personally but it doesn’t take much for me to put myself in that position.”

“It’s the most horrible feeling,” Sirius says, leveling with him, but his posture is still relaxed. “I went to a legal conference in Florida about a year and a half after we got married, hit it off with some guy and invited him up to my hotel room, and that’s when I realized _holy shit_ , I really need to get my fucking life together because I’m not just ruining my own, I’m ruining hers too.”

Remus is fully invested in the story. His eyebrows are raised and he realizes he has leaned in towards Sirius without even realizing it until now. “What did you do?” he asks, and he hears it come out almost like a whisper. 

“I sent the guy home, somehow — one of the only things I did right,” Sirius supplies, “and then I called Jane and initiated the conversation that I had been running from.”

“How did she take it?”

Sirius exhales, and Remus can truly feel the weight of it. Yet his voice is perfectly steady; matter-of-fact. “Not good,” he speaks simply. “She was very upset, which was completely justified. She screamed at me when I came clean, told me that I let her waste four years and a marriage. She could have taken that job in New York City she had been offered, could have had a completely different life instead of becoming divorced before she was even 28 years old,” he goes on, slowing down his cadence now. “She had moved out by the time I got back home two days later. I got served with divorce papers the next day, and the only time she would speak to me after that was when her attorney was present.”

Remus lets out his own sigh, and he is sure that it communicates the amount of empathy he has for this situation; coming to terms with your sexuality is hard enough, having another person roped into it with a lot to lose is beyond his comprehension. “I can’t imagine,” he offers. “That must have broken your heart.”

Sirius laughs softly and hums. “It sure did, but there were only one or two people who had any sympathy for me in that regard, and I was not one of them.” 

Remus looks at him with skepticism. “It’s just an awful situation, and yeah, it could have been avoided. But you didn’t have all of the information yet.”

Sirius wrinkles his nose and puts out a sound that reeks of _Sorry Remus, I’m not buying it._ “I really should have known by then.”

Shrug. “But you didn’t,” Remus says straight-up, because ‘should have’ doesn’t change the facts, “And it must have been horrible for her. Really, that’s not insignificant. But it must have been terrible for you too.” 

Sirius purses his lips, remaining quiet as he either lets Remus’ words sink or chooses not to argue the point any further. 

“How many years ago was that?” Remus asks.

“Six years in October,” Sirius says with a nod. “And look, I’m not wallowing in it. I know people make mistakes and it was the best thing to do given the situation that I got us in. We are both better off, that goes without saying, but,” he lifts one shoulder in a shrug, before releasing it down, “I really don’t know if I will ever forgive myself for that.”

It’s quiet for a while, and Remus’ heart aches a bit for the other man, even though there’s not a lot of real pain there anymore. “How does she feel about you now? Six years is a lot of time for some reflection and—”

“Oh she hates me,” Sirius offers.

“Really?”

A firm nod. “She hates me.”

Remus tilts his head to the side, taking in the man in front of him whose face is calm and collected, but that Remus knows is a mask. He knows because he’s quite good at that too. “I don’t think she does.”

Sirius smiles, eyes catching Remus in a riptide for a solid four seconds — his mother’s words, _SWIM PARALLEL TO THE SHORE, REMUS! PARALLEL!_ ringing through his mind — before he laughs. “Oh really?” he challenges.

Remus laughs back, the hilarity of _him_ suddenly becoming the optimist not lost on either of them. He shuffles his hands in front of himself, nonsensical gestures as he collects his thoughts. “Time has a way of bringing light to situations that you were too blinded by hurt to see clearly in the moment. Six years is a long time to think and rebuild and reflect, all of which I’m sure she’s done,” he says, priding himself on how well that all came out, and then, “Did she end up moving to New York City?”

“She did,” Sirius says with a nod. “I tried to reach out a couple of times after the divorce was finalized without any luck. After three times I figured I should let her be, I can’t force her to speak to me or anything, and if I can offer her that peace at least, I sure as hell am going to.”

Remus hums in the affirmative. “I get that.” He pauses, collecting his thoughts for a solid five seconds before giving it another shot. “I think she’ll reach out to you one day. It all ended in such a mess, and no matter how she felt afterwards, she loved you enough to marry you at one point. That’s pretty significant.”

Sirius looks at the wall ahead of him and nods, turning to Remus a moment later. “Well I certainly hope so, Remus Lupin. Until then, I can at least hold on to the idea that she has moved on and created a better life for herself.”

“And you should,” Remus gives him, wondering how he became a therapist to Sirius Black. But these have been weird days, here in the courthouse, and it certainly isn’t a bad development all things considered. “You did not ruin her life.” 

“No,” Sirius gives him back, tone measured, ”Just our friendship.”

Remus inclines his head. “You had to,” he says. “You were in a situation that was never going to last. And it’s sad, but you had to do it.”

“I did have to do it,” Sirius echoes with a nod before straightening up a second later and shooting Remus an absolutely glowing smile. “Well that was a fun one,” he supplies with a nod in his direction.

Remus laughs at the combination of the words and the facial expression, giving himself a moment before responding with, “My fault, sorry about that.” And then, because he is feeling more generous than ever after hearing The Great News, “You can ask me something similar too if you want, and I’ll even answer honestly after putting you through that.” 

“Oh, you’re kind,” Sirius croons with a hint of happy sarcasm. “So asking about your worst breakup won’t give me a real middle finger in the face this time?”

Quiet laughter and a shake of his head. “No,” he responds, and he finds he is looking forward to sharing this story with the other man, because despite only knowing each other for a measly two days, there is something there. And for the first time in recent memory, Remus wants to run towards it, not away from it. “So worst breakup?”

“Yes.”

“That would be Noah,” Remus affirms.

“Ah,” Sirius says, “so it wasn’t all pancakes and sunshine then.”

Remus tilts his head in thought. “It never is though, is it?”

Sirius laughs, and Remus smiles back at him for the fact that he caused the melodious sound. “It sure isn’t.”

“We met when I was 25 through work,” Remus starts easily enough, relaxing his shoulder back behind him again. “He was at a smaller tech company we were acquiring, and he and I worked on some elements of the M&A comms together. We knew each other for a year because those processes take forever — just casually through emails, and then lunch every now and again once the acquisition was complete — and there was always an attraction there. But it was unspoken that nothing could happen between us because I certainly wasn’t interested in mixing my work and personal life, and he didn’t want to jeopardize anything either.” 

Raised eyebrows. “Until something did happen,” Sirius poses in a scandalous tone.

Remus nods back just as scandalously. “Until he took a job at a different company, completely unrelated. And then it was immediate. We got together for dinner and there were no barriers anymore, so things just took off from there. Three years later we moved in together.” 

“Sounds easy, natural,” Sirius comments, crossing his arms and settling into the story. “So what went wrong?”

“It was great,” Remus confirms, and it never ceases to surprise him how easy it is to admit that now for all that he went through at the time. “I was happy to have found somebody who I got along with so effortlessly and who seemed to love the things about me that I was most proud of. I was content. We talked about getting married, and after the first two years. I was ready to do it, didn’t really see the point in waiting, but he always wanted to wait a little bit longer.” He pauses, thinking back on how he was at that time in his life; a less realized version of himself. With a wave of his hand he tacks on, “And I didn’t mind that because I wasn’t in a rush. I was happy and nothing was wrong.”

Sirius gives a sound of acknowledgement, but stays quiet as he lets Remus keep the floor. His head is leaned back lazily against the wall behind them, his lips parted the smallest amount as he waits for Remus to continue on. 

“But there was a lot wrong that I didn’t see,” Remus builds on. “I always assumed things were right and easy between us, that because I was happy he was too. And I rationalized things that would put me on alert now — him sitting on the couch next to me with his phone faced away as he texted, staying late at his office even though he prefered to work from home whenever he could — I thought I knew what we had, so I didn’t entertain anything in my mind that said otherwise.”

“So he cheated on you?” Sirius asks flatly.

“He left me for one of our friends,” Remus says, and Sirius sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Well, it had been my friend first, before Noah and I ever met. I introduced them,” he clarifies to really give the full situation. “I had no absolutely no idea, literally never would have suspected, even though in retrospect I should have. So you can imagine how stupid I felt.”

Sirius nods, furrowing his brows. “What did you do?”

“Well I moved out immediately,” Remus gives him after a beat. “I let him have the apartment because there was no way I could stay there, with or without him, after that. And then…” Remus shrugs, “I didn’t really do anything.”

Sirius tilts his head a bit. “What do you mean?”

Remus considers his reaction so many years ago. “I mean I kind of gave up for a while,” he admits, because everything is so clear in hindsight, even the grieving process. “I lost one of my best friends, I lost my boyfriend, and it brought me so low that it was easier for me to just accept that that sort of thing — successful long term relationships,” he mutters the phrase out with a bit of mockery, “weren’t meant for me. It felt easier to accept that than to think about trying again eventually.”

“And now?” Sirius asks without a pause.

Remus huffs a laugh, still unsure how he ended up having a heart-to-heart with a virtual stranger, but it feels good. So he leans his head back and continues honestly with, “I’m still figuring it out. I prefer the parts of my life that make sense. If I do my job well at work, I build up my relationships and credibility. If I cycle however many miles a week, I stay in shape and improve my endurance. If I stay away from foods my body is sensitive to, my energy levels are high,” Remus explains in a measured tone, before pushing out an incredulous laugh, glancing toward the ceiling. “But relationships? Fuck, I failed miserably at that despite thinking I did everything right. So now I find fulfillment elsewhere.”

Sirius is quiet for a moment, and another moment. Then he hums, and the softness of the sound causes Remus to look over at him again. Sirius’ expression is blank, but not in a disinterested way. It is blank in a way that Remus deciphers as total authenticity. “You make it seem like there is something wrong with you,” Sirius says, eyes not wavering for a moment. 

Remus opens his mouth to combat the idea, and then shuts it again, thinking of how to articulate his answer to that. He clears his throat, feeling uncomfortable, but it isn’t unpleasant somehow. He realizes that he actually likes the feeling, of being made to really examine something he hadn’t been pulled to question before.

“It wasn’t about you, Remus,” Sirius continues on before he can speak, somehow piercing to the core of something that Remus has held as truth for four years now, but never articulated to anybody quite like this, not even Peter. “He just wasn’t the right guy for you. It isn’t anything deeper than that.”

It’s so simple. So basic. Because most of the time that’s exactly what the truth is. And Remus feels a swift stab to the gut at that. He’s breathless and a bit panicked, really. The words are appreciated, they are, but he thinks they are some he would like to think over on his own, without eyes piercing into him like the perfect storm.

“What happened to them?” Sirius tacks on with mercy. “Did they last long?”

After the five seconds it takes for him to comprehend the question, Remus snorts and then gives his head a good shake, finding this specific subtopic easier to speak on. And thank God. “They lasted a month.”

Sirius blinks slowly as if that’s the least surprising thing he’d ever heard. “And?”

“And I heard from Noah again,” he informs a completely unsurprised Sirius, as if Remus was actually saying that the ocean is vast, or an octopus has eight legs. “He ‘made a big mistake, should have talked to me about it more, made an effort when he felt like the relationship was getting a bit stagnant,’” Remus repeats all the words Noah had come to him with, sad and regretful and saying all the things Remus had thought he wanted to hear until he did. “But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a difficult decision for me. Everything I felt for him evaporated when he did that to me.”

Sirius nods once. “Good, he didn’t deserve you,” he says with complete sincerity, as though it is the most basic fact in the world, and Remus finds himself frozen by it. A glacier. Hello, he is Remus J. Lupin, newest resident of Antarctica, nice to meet you. “And the friend?”

He manages to pull himself back, miraculously. “I ran into him maybe two years later at the grocery store,” he says as though he didn’t just defrost in a matter of seconds. His voice is off, but he’s managing. “We said hello. It was fine, uncomfortable of course, mostly for him I think. Because again, we had this friendship dating back to college days — never in a million years did I think he would betray me like that — and after it happened, there just wasn’t anything that could be salvaged, no matter how sorry he was.” 

“Right,” Sirius sighs out, and Remus can see in his face that he is perhaps piecing together Remus’ response to answer a question about his own life.

“But I don’t hate them, either of them,” Remus emphasizes, more for the other man’s sake than his own. “I don’t particularly hope they go on to live extraordinarily happy lives,” he draws out with a laugh that Sirius also takes part in, “but I don’t want them to be miserable either.” A pause. Sirius gives a hum, and Remus loves the way it sounds. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Lower. “I’m just indifferent, and I’m happy I have built the life that I have for myself without them.”

Sirius is still quiet, continuing to offer Remus the floor. “Sometimes I think I owe them something for making everything so clear when I had been too lazy to make proactive choices for myself,” Remus starts up again, but the tension does not break. “In some weird way, I’m grateful for everything that happened, because as I’m sure you can attest to, those low times are the times we learn the most about ourselves,” Remus finishes, and Jesus Christ Superstar, how did he pull the pep-talk of the century out of nowhere like that. He didn’t know he had it in him.

A stretch of silence. Then the left side of Sirius’ mouth pulls up into a smile. “All this wisdom from the guy who tried to sneak a fork into a courthouse.” 

“Oh fuck off,” Remus breathes out, but there’s barely anything behind it, and he knows Sirius knows it. Because things have shifted between them. They shifted a while ago, but now Remus can see it right in front of him.

Sirius is looking directly at him, facing him straight on, and Remus finds the close eye contact easy to hold, oddly enough. Not at all like drowning, not like he thought it would be. He watches Sirius’ eyes as they scan his face, feeling his own mouth mirroring the small smile on the other man’s.

Remus couldn’t turn away even if he tried. But he’s not trying. The movement pulls Sirius’ gaze down, lingering on Remus’ lips for just a second before they flicker back up again, engulfing Remus back into the vortex all over again. And, it occurs to him, that if Captain Ahab had discovered similar beauty during his time at sea, perhaps he wouldn’t have traded his life for the pursuit of revenge against a giant sperm whale—

There’s a jolt, followed by metal groaning against itself, and a second more ragged jolt that seems to drop them in space by two feet. Remus puts his hand out like a cat finding its balance as his body jostles with the movement, and Sirius does the same except he’s grabbed hold of Remus’ wrist, for his own balance or for Remus’ he isn’t sure. They’re suspended in a pause, looking at each other, neither of them having quite registered what’s going on, until the elevator doors begin to open, and on the other side is—

“Well I’ll be damned, Sirius! I’d think by now you’d avoid the elevator like the plague,” Francy’s voice booms into the small space and Remus has one more second of Sirius’ attention before his hand drops away and his face pulls up until a large smile — similar to Jim Potter’s when he enters a courtroom, Remus is struck with the recognition — and he gets back onto his feet. 

“It’s only happened to me three times in my eight years here, Francy. That’s not enough to scare me away,” he throws right back at her, moving to secure his top button and tie. And Remus sits there thinking that through. Eight years. Sirius probably works 48 weeks a year, that’s at the very least 10 elevator rides per week, 480 rides per year — carry the one — making it a minimum of 3840 total elevator rides. Nearly 4,000 rides in that elevator and somehow on one of the three times Sirius has gotten stuck it happened to be with Remus. 

And in a massively unexpected about-face, Remus finds that this inconvenience was far more of a blessing than a curse.

“Remus? Ready to go?” Sirius’ voice breaks into his thoughts while he grabs for his suit jacket, and Remus hauls himself off the floor and back to standing again. And it hits him; it breaks through every other thought in his mind like a wrecking ball. He is finally completely _free._ Knock on wood, but there is nothing that can thwart him now as he moves out of the elevator and into the nearly empty lobby. 

He checks his phone. The time has flown by — it’s already 10:37. Then a wave of hope surges through him as he realizes that he may be able to make the end of the All Hands meeting if he doesn’t waste anymore time. He looks up again, and there is Sirius, leaning against the doors of the elevator, holding them open as he looks after Remus with interest, Francy standing there behind him scrolling through her phone. She glances up just then, looking blankly from Remus to Sirius to Remus again.

Remus breaks the short silence, gesturing toward the exit. “I’m going to head into work,” he says, feeling awkward for some reason he has not sorted out yet. But his freedom is so close, and his need for it is too ingrained at this point for him to ignore.

Sirius hums, a smile holding on the left side of his face. “I guess this is goodbye then.”

“Yeah,” Remus realizes, and then, “Thanks for,” he waves at the elevator, feeling words harder to form outside the tiny confines of its four walls, “well, that.”

A soft laugh, and Sirius takes a step backwards and presses a button that Remus can’t see. Probably back up to the fourth floor now. “Bye Remus.” 

“Bye Sirius,” he answers, a soft wave accompanying the words, and a second later, the elevator doors close between them.

_I can’t believe today was a good day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can confirm that the Pizza Hut story was funnier in real life. Hilarious, actually, I don't think I stopped cry-laughing for ten minutes.


	5. Day 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Song of the Day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CduA0TULnow)

Friday starts out with a bang, living up to the title of being Remus’ Favorite Day of the Week. He wakes up before his alarm at 7:49, flipping his pillow over with a sigh of pleasure and allowing himself an extra ten minutes of nothing as he soaks in the fact that he doesn’t need to be in the office until 9:30 — and even then, his first meeting isn’t until 11 — so he has ample time for his morning routine. Rays of golden light gleam in through his window, letting him know that instead of the rain that was forecasted for this morning, the sun is out and there’s not a cloud in sight. 

He stretches out, lifting his arms over his head as the warmth of the sunshine contrasts with the cool breeze from his ceiling fan, and what a perfect way to wake up. There’s a bird chirping outside — singing some unrecognizable yet melodic song — and all in all, it’s a beautiful morning with a beautiful day to look forward to. Another rush of gratitude rises in his body with the realization that he won’t have jury duty for another couple of years at least.

First, and most crucial, he hits the shower. He has time to spare, so he lets the water heat up to the perfect temperature, brushing his teeth as he does and even going for some mouthwash — usually only reserved as a nighttime luxury, but hey, he made it through the week and he’s earned this morning wintermint treat. He sighs as the warm spray of the shower hits his skin, truly his favorite way to wake up, a simple pleasure that is amplified by the fact that he _still doesn’t have jury duty,_ and there’s just one last day of work before his weekend begins. He takes his time, massaging the lemon-grass scented shampoo into his scalp, the familiar smell even more delightful to his nostrils this morning, almost intoxicating, he thinks, as his fingertips push into his temples, providing just a little extra care as his mood soars higher and higher. 

He’s nearly drunk on the leisurely pace he had been robbed of the prior two mornings, wrapping a towel around his waist as he meanders into the kitchen, turning on his coffee machine first and downing a quick glass of water while it heats up — hydration and all that jazz — moving his feet a little bit quicker than usual, and is he dancing a bit? He thinks he is. 

He presses the plain coffee option and the familiar heavenly sound of beans grinding fills the kitchen as the machine brews a fresh cup of dark roast that he will never take for granted again. It’s 8:21 when it finishes, and Remus is feeling just feisty enough that his finger moves to the espresso button to top off his coffee. Just a little cherry on top of his morning. Too much caffeine? Not today.

He’s in a great mood. It’s impossible not to be after emerging from the last two miserable days to find his tried and true routine waiting for him with open arms. An old friend that has gotten him through the good times and the bad. His bed is soft, his shower has water pressure set to perfection, and his coffee is _quality._

Life is so simple when you get down to it, he thinks, and so enjoyable in its simplicity. He reflects on how grateful he is. And he thinks he will call his mother tonight. 

Remus throws on his helmet and walks his bike out the front door five minutes before 9, wearing a pair of jeans and black t-shirt underneath the backpack slung across his shoulders. It’s an easy ride to work, five miles on the bike path that feeds into uptown, and just a couple of minutes further from there. He is greeted by a cool 62 degrees, which is within the range of Perfect Temperature for biking in March, and enjoys a welcoming breeze throughout the entire ride. As he crosses the halfway mark, he rides past a woman who is running with her German Shepherd. The dog stops to bark at Remus as he rides on by, and Remus isn’t sure he’s ever seen anything as terrifying and adorable at the same time. What a positively good boy. 

His bike is stowed away by 9:24, and he waltzes onto an empty elevator two minutes later. Despite being on one of the top floors of the building, the ride takes less than 12 seconds, and you’ve really gotta love technology these days.

“Good morning, Remus,” Amanda greets him as soon as he steps out of the elevator, having just rounded the corner. What delightfully perfect timing. “Sorry about yesterday.”

Remus waves that off. “Absolutely nothing to be sorry for, you had an appointment to get to and I was the one who got in too late.” Amanda keeps walking with him despite the fact that they have just passed her desk, knowing that he is headed for the kitchen to grab some breakfast. A creature of habit and all that. “Plus, it wasn’t urgent that we catch up about the call. Let’s just touch base for a minute before our meeting with Darlina.” 

Amanda nods and checks her phone for a brief moment. “I’ve got a quick call in five minutes. How about I come find you after that?”

“That would be perfect,” Remus practically sings as he opens the refrigerator to see just what it’s stashed with today. Berries, almond butter, avocados, hard-boiled eggs—

“I’ll see you then,” Amanda’s voice breaks in, and he sends her a quick nod before getting back to what’s really important, because hell yes, there are three breakfast burritos left on the top shelf of the freezer and he is _hungry._

He pours a serving of berries onto a paper plate after popping a burrito into the microwave and munches on them while he fills up a cup of water. It’s a big question, whether or not he wants to go for coffee numero dos right now, but he ultimately decides he’ll appreciate it more in the afternoon. Eduardo pops into the kitchen while he’s deep in thought about the merits of iced vs. hot, but Remus is able to pull out of his internal monologue and meets him with a smile.

“Good to have you back,” his colleague in internal comms greets him. “I’m surprised they kept you there that long,” he puts out as he moves to the coffee machine. “Usually the selection part goes a little faster.”

“Usually, yeah,” Remus snorts, debating how much he wants to rant on the subject. And then, because he’d really like to put the whole memory behind him and not let it cloud this glorious day, he takes a different route. “How are the kids? Doing anything exciting this weekend?”

“Kids are great,” Eduardo chimes, pouring creamer into his cup before going for a stir stick. “Sophia’s birthday is coming up on the 29th, so we are all taking a long weekend to go spring skiing.”

Remus pauses. “What?”

“It’s Sophia’s 13th birthday on good ol’ March two-nine,” he elaborates cheerily, and Remus accidentally drops a berry, “and she decided she wants to go _skiing_ , of all things. But you know I’m never going to turn that down.”

Remus clears his throat. “Right,” he says, straightening back up and tossing the berry in the trash. “Well happy birthday to her. Officially a teenager.”

“Yeah, it’s a big one,” Eduardo says with significance, a look in his eyes that says _I can’t believe how fast the time went_ for him. “I’m thrilled she loves the snow so much, she’s kind of become my little buddy whenever we go since Marie never really took to it and Henry is still so young.”

“She’s gotten that good?” Remus asks, recalling one story Eduardo had told him a couple years back when he’d pushed Sophia a little too far and she had a panic attack at the top of a blue run.

“Something happened after we got her a set of lessons last winter. She’s fearless now,” he explains, pressing a lid onto his cup. “I promised her that we could do her first black diamond this trip.”

“Ah, a momentous occasion,” Remus comments, going for a swig of water, not at all surprised that a 13-year-old was already surpassing him at skiing. Good for her.

“Exactly,” he says. “Knowing her, she’ll probably speed right on down with no problem and demand we do a double black. But I don’t know if she’s ready for that yet, because… well, experts only.”

Remus chokes as the water goes down the wrong pipe. “Hm?” he puts out, recovering.

“Experts only,” Eduardo reiterates, smile going a little funny as he regards Remus. “The double black diamond runs? I don’t want her getting caught in a tree well or something. Marie would kill me.”

“Oh,” Remus breathes out, coughing one last time. He turns to take his burrito out of the microwave that had started beeping at him. “Yeah. Maybe just stick to the single blacks? There are probably so many that she will have a ton of new runs to try before she even considers the doubles.”

Eduardo nods. “Good point,” he says, sneaking past Remus to put the creamer back into the fridge. “Plus the snow will probably present a challenge of its own this late in the season. But what about you? Any weekend plans?”

And this is where Remus usually combs through his mind to think of the most interesting thing he is considering doing that weekend, lest he give the same response every Friday whenever this question is inevitably asked. But not today. Today is a gift and he has not a single thing to hide. “Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.”

Eduardo laughs at that, leaning back against the counter as he takes his first sip of coffee. “So biking and cleaning and reading,” he puts out, and it’s like music to Remus’ ears. “I miss those days,” he says, shooting a nod to Remus as he tacks on, “before kids.”

“You know, I get that,” Remus responds, never one to take his precious free time or routine for granted. But he realizes that he does need to get to work before he speaks to Amanda, so he pushes away from the counter and points over his shoulder. “Hey I’ve got to get some stuff done before our meeting, catch you later?”

“Absolutely,” Eduardo says with a salute. “Have a good one.”

“Fill me in on the ski trip next week,” he levels with the other man first. “I can’t wait to hear how Sophia does.”

Eduardo promises that he will. And with that, Remus picks his backpack off the floor, and then grabs his breakfast and water before making the 15 second walk to his desk to start responding to the emails he hadn’t gotten to the afternoon before. And he is getting through them at a good pace, sending an email off to Luke about the agenda for their team standup on Monday morning. He’s in the process of reviewing Cecilia’s project brief, before a knock on the desk takes him out of it, and he sees Amanda standing there expectantly. 

He checks the time. It’s already 10:45. “Come on over,” he gestures to the chair next to him, reserved there for just these kinds of occasions, and then turns back to his computer screen because if he just hits enter on this last suggestion in her doc, she’ll be able to get it sent off…. And there it goes. Done. 

“Sorry I’m a bit late. The call took longer than I anticipated,” she says as she pulls out the chair to sit down.

Remus hums genially, finally looking away from his computer screen. “You’re fine. We’ve got more than enough time.”

“Great,” she replies, and then after a moment. “Actually do you want to head over to the conference room early? We can get settled in there before the meeting starts, and I can go over my notes with you on the projection screen.” 

“Sure,” Remus agrees before closing his laptop and unplugging from his monitor. He has another five emails to answer before he leaves the office today, practically nothing. Amanda stands up and waits back as he gathers his things up — his laptop and notebook in one hand, water in the other.

“So,” she starts, with a bit of apprehension as they begin to walk down the hallway towards the conference rooms. 

“Yes?” he asks with a laugh.

She looks left, she looks right, and when she sees that nobody else is going to be within hearing range for a good while, she starts up again with, “Guess who texted me this last weekend.”

Remus furrows his brow in confusion, racking his mind for a few seconds as he loads all of his mental data concerning Amanda’s personal life. She deems that too much time, given the _look_ she shoots him when he doesn’t answer right away, and he shrugs dramatically. “Who?”

“Alicia.”

Remus stops walking. “You’re kidding,” he says less than neutrally.

Amanda flashes him another look, and this time she communicates something Remus deciphers as _oh, you bet your ass I’m not kidding,_ and he feels his jaw drop. 

“You’re _not_ kidding,” he corrects himself, still frozen in place. 

She nods down the hallway. “Come on, I’ll explain as we walk.”

And yeah, that’s a good idea, he thinks, taking a couple of strides forward before falling back into line with her. “What did she want?”

“Acted like nothing had happened. Like she didn’t up and leave the product marketing department in shambles one morning without any notice at all. I couldn’t get into any of the files she owned and neither could her team, if you recall. It was miserable.”

Remus couldn’t forget how stressful that morning was if he tried, especially for Amanda, given Alicia had a ton of action items that they had needed from her before she could issue out an urgent press release. They had Product executives breathing down their necks about the delay, on top of it. He pulls the glass door of the conference room open and holds it for Amanda to walk through, following behind her a second later. “What did the text actually say?”

Amanda, theatrical as ever, shoots him another expression that resembles something like a rotten pear. “It said ‘Are you watching The Bachelor this season?’”

“What?” he says in disbelief as he lays his laptop down and takes a seat in front of it, reaching for a pen from the stash in the middle of the table.

“Yes, and then, ‘I think you should apply to be on it! You’d be perfect for it. I mean, you’re still single right?’”

Remus feels his face contort into something that could probably only be described as a rotten mango, if he’s keeping with the fruit analogy. “What world are we living in?”

Amanda throws up her hands, her own laptop already set up in the room and connected to the projector screen. “Apparently ghosting your employer to start a new job the next day is acceptable these days,” she chirps. “Thanks, social media culture.”

“Amen to that,” Remus breathes as Amanda fiddles around on her trackpad to pull up her notes. “And have you ever even watched that show? Did you guys talk about that when she worked here or something?”

Her sour frown confirms it all, looking as though Remus has just committed sacrilege. “I have literally never watched a reality tv show. Not a single episode.”

“What is going on,” he puts out with disbelief mixed with a laugh, shaking his head, and doing a solid double-take when a table set up at the back of the room catches his attention. “We had to reach out to her emergency contact about seven times before finding out wh—”

He pauses mid-sentence.

Amanda turns to look at him. “What is it?” she asks, slowly turning around to follow his gaze behind her.

His brows furrow. “Why is there an entire bowl of green apples in here.”

“Oh yum, how could I have missed that,” she perks up as she rolls back in her chair to grab one. “I love it when they bring fresh fruit into the big conference rooms,” she chimes, taking a good 20 seconds to select the apple that is the right one for her, then returns to the table. “Although what’s up with them all being green?”

Remus eyes the table suspiciously for one second, calls himself crazy the next, and then remembers why they are in the conference room at all. “So the call yesterday…”

_Crunch._

He twitches. 

“Right, sorry,” she says through her bite. Endearing and boorish all at once, and Remus cannot help but absolutely adore her for it. “So the first couple of slides were dedicated to our team’s partnership with Recruiting on second-chance hiring. Your speaker notes were perfect so I just studied up on those. Then we covered—”

“Hey you two,” a new voice rings into the conference room as the glass door to Remus’ left opens and Darlina appears holding a cup of coffee and her laptop. “Starting early?”

“Just catching up on what I missed,” Remus lets her know, putting a pause on the current conversation, but that’s just fine because they can pick it up in the afternoon again if they need to. He shoots Amanda a nod, and she telepathically understands, disconnecting her screen from the projector in the next moment. 

“Well Amanda had it covered,” Darlina says with a smile, “led that section like a champ.”

Remus sighs happily and shoots Amanda a smile, because it’s a wonderful feeling to be able to count on people to do their jobs. He checks the time, 10:56. Just a couple more minutes left, and he pulls up their agenda to review the key decisions they need to make today as a group. Darlina and Amanda fall into a discussion about plans for the next team-building outing, and other than the occasional _crunch_ , Remus picks up on none of it. The rest of the PR team files in at exactly the same time, probably coming out of their own meeting for how coincidental the timing is, and he shoots them a smile before getting back to prepping.

By 11:02, Eduardo and Cecilia, their key partners in internal comms, Emmeline, privacy & security attorney, and Adele, their partner on the community support strategy team, have filed into the room too, and they’re kicking off a conversation about their first topic. It’s Friday, and therefore everybody’s mood is amplified, filling the room with the type of positivity and action-oriented energy that Remus thrives on as they discuss Adele’s project around optimizing social media response over the next quarter.

“We’re using natural language processing to detect any topics that come up on social media channels that the PR team would likely need to get in front of,” she explains, walking them through a flow chart on the projection screen, “and we’ll have a specific support team dedicated to each channel to double-check and investigate the algorithm’s flags before raising to the right parties for actioning.”

“This is excellent, Adele, and will definitely give our teams a bit more time to react. Thanks for walking us through the roll-out,” Remus starts one she has finished her thought. “Do you have an idea of what the response time will be for the support team once a flag hits their queue? I imagine that has some dependency on the size of the team dedicated to each channel.” 

She continues on with an explanation for how a short three hour response time will be operationalized, and everyone in the room is elated at the ever-increasing efficiency of the team.

At about 45 minutes in, they’ve moved onto their next and final topic, putting the finishing touches on some messaging that Amanda and Cecilia have crafted for a new product release coming out in two weeks. This is an important press release, so they had already worked in lockstep with the product marketing team on specifics and with Emmeline to ensure the information shared didn’t pose any legal risk, and now it’s just about fine-tuning the language before Remus signs off on it.

Cecilia takes the reigns and goes into screen-share mode now, pulling up the doc for the group to review as she summarizes the goal of the messaging in introduction. She begins reading the first paragraph and takes care to explain the context behind the word choices used and the principles she and Amanda had kept in mind. Remus is onboard, so she moves onto the second paragraph and repeats the process.

“‘The roll-out of this new feature in our virtual reality product represents a huge achievement in—’”

“Cecilia and team, quick note if I can stop you,” Remus chimes in, “I think we use the word ‘huge’ in the first paragraph — maybe we can replace it with a more loaded adjective that really speaks to the gravity of the achievement we’re talking about. Thoughts?”

“Massive?” Luke throws out, like the human thesaurus he is. “Colossal? Immense? Monumental?”

“I think I like coloss—” Remus starts to say, but is cut off abruptly. 

“Of _Titantic_ proportions,” Cecilia enunciates with a severe gravity that matches the words. Heavy and theatrical. She raises her eyebrows as she looks around, as though she knows she has struck gold with this suggestion, unafraid to show that she is immensely pleased with herself and the phrase that her brain has so generously provided to the group.

And they are awed. Vigorous nodding and chimes of _yes, I love it!_ follow the suggestion. _Cecilia I’m flying,_ someone throws out. Remus blinks. 

And that’s it.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Remus slams his laptop shut with far more bravado than is required. 

Everyone at the table turns their heads, in near perfect synchronicity, at the sound. It’s silent. Remus coughs. He promptly stands up and picks up his laptop. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says, his mouth one step ahead of his brain.

“Are you alright?” Darlina asks with a mix between confusion and worry in her voice.

“I need to go take care of something,” he says, and without further explanation he turns and heads out of the conference room.

Remus walks quickly back to his desk, making it there in less than fifteen seconds before dropping his laptop onto it and grabbing his phone instead. He makes a movement towards his helmet, and then balks. He freezes in thought, moves towards it again and then ultimately decides that an Uber is in order. 

He nods at the front desk as he leaves the office, pulling the app up on his phone and typing in his destination, thrilled when it autofills for him after he types in only half of the first word. There’s an Uber three minutes away. Perfect. Technology is great. Technology is wonderful. Everybody likes it. 

And a _thunk_ as he trips over himself while walking with his attention dedicated to the phone in his hands, barely catching his footing. He sends a quick look around to see if anybody caught that embarrassment of the day, and when he finds that nobody did, victory is his and he continues on this quest that he didn’t set out for today, but came and found him all the same.

Before he has any time at all to question what exactly he is doing, or to even chastise himself for disappearing in the middle of a meeting — how utterly unlike him and outrageous is that — he is in the elevator and heading down to the lobby. 

Uber informs him that his driver — Laura, driving a white Toyota Rav4 — is a minute and a half away and he heads out of the door and stands in front of the building, watching as her little car symbol makes its way closer and closer to his pickup stop on the map. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he truly hasn’t a single idea of what’s come over him. He wonders if he has a fever; maybe he needs to go to the hospital and get checked out. But when that white Rav4 pulls up to the curb, he opens the rear door and steps inside without hesitation.

“How are you doing today?” Laura — a pleasant twenty-something with a messy bun — chimes. Remus hears some sort of pop music in the background, but the volume is too low for him to recognize. “Thank God it’s Friday, right?” she adds with a look over her shoulder before she pulls the car out away from the curb.

“Yeah for sure,” Remus puts out kindly, tapping his foot on the floor of the car as he wonders again what the hell he is doing. And that song in the background, _what is that song?_ “Are you working this weekend?”

She shrugs. “I work when I want to. If I don’t make any plans tonight then I probably will.”

He nods. “Good deal.” And that beat. He sees a flash of red in his mind’s eye but he wouldn’t be able to say why. “Could you turn this song up?”

She laughs brightly. “Big Britney fan too?” she asks as she turns up the volume. 

And no, he isn’t. Not particularly. But he’s in a decent mood, so, “I love the time period.”

_Oops, I did it again_   
_I played with your heart, got lost in the game_ _  
Oh baby, baby_

He can’t help it. His left shoulder starts bopping. Oh and a foot joins in now too. He _really_ can’t help it. He watches the buildings pass by as he listens to Laura sing along, and hey she’s not half bad.

“You’re a lovely singer,” he offers.

She sends a wink in the rear view mirror before belting out the next round of lyrics, much to Remus’ delight. They get stopped at a red light as a pack of pedestrians walk through the crosswalk — headed to lunch no doubt — but that’s all fine and dandy because there’s no rush at all today. Remus bops along in the back, completely entranced in the moment as Laura sings on about losing all her senses, and what do you know, apparently that is just so typically her. Oh baby baby. 

“Ahhhh, I love this part,” she plows on, turning up the volume even more. An _unnyeah yeah yeah yeah yeah_ and the beat stops and some dialogue starts — inexplicably placed dialogue that Remus forgot existed in the song until this very moment. 

A train horn. _All aboard! Britney... before you go, there’s something that I want you to have._

“Oh it’s beautiful,” Laura speaks along, capturing the tone and cadence in a way that Remus is in awe of. Best Britney impersonator this side of the Rocky Mountains. “But wait a moment, isn’t this—”

_Yes, yes it is._

“But I thought the old lady dropped it into the ocean in the end.” And truly, that’s some talent right there. This girl should go on tour. Or at least make a YouTube channel.

And wait, what?

_Well baby, I went down and got it for you._

Remus swallows. Really?

“Aw, you shouldn’t have—”

_OOPS I._ Dramatic pause. _DID IT AGAIN—_

“How does a Titanic reference fit into the song?” he asks, loud enough to cut off that spot-on Britney impersonation as he wonders how he has never asked this question before. “And aren’t they on Mars?”

“You know,” Laura says wistfully, voice back to her own as she keeps her eyes on the road — and Remus loves her for that little detail, “it really doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Remus laughs out a sigh, flopping back against the seat. “Nothing makes sense,” he confirms, though his statement is meant in a broader context. He allows his body to lob over to the door, the side of his head resting up against the window, and finds that they are entering downtown. Another song comes on, something newer that Remus doesn’t recognize, but Laura sings along to it all the same. It’s soothing, actually. Thank god for Laura.

More buildings pass and Remus feels his stomach tighten as they get closer and closer to the destination. His fingers get to tapping against his knee. He certainly does not believe in signs from the universe — but something is haunting him today at a cosmic level, and who the fuck is he to mess with that. 

“We’re here,” Laura singsongs with vibrato as the car pulls up to the side of the road and stops, and really, get the girl a damn contract with a record label already because that’s the voice of an angel.

“Thank you!” Remus responds, opening the car door to find the sprawling courthouse building right in front of him. And he may not be running up 72 steps to the Philadelphia Museum of Art in a sweatsuit, but he can hear the theme song all the same — thanks a lot, Jim Potter. 

It’s showtime, he thinks, as he pulls the door of the courthouse open, finding the scene in front of him so familiar now that it almost feels like his second home. The horrible one that he never wants to visit. But at this point, he _does_ have a fever, hospital visit not required, because the only prescription is inside this very courthouse.

Those brass instruments are ringing in his head, amping him up, as he sees Billy behind the conveyor belt and Francy standing by the metal detector. It’s late in the morning and there is no line. Weird, he thinks, as he throws his wallet into a tray and gets rid of the belt around his hips. He waltzes through the machine once he’s beckoned, throwing out a “Hello Francy,” and a head nod in her direction just because he can. 

She looks at him for a second. “Do I know you?”

And well, that’s a blow to the ego. “Nope,” he gives her, grabbing his belt and looping it through again, thinking that at least he didn’t set the machine off this time. 

Distrustful as always when it includes one Remus Lupin, she squints at him. And Remus would really prefer to never get to know her any better, because if she feels this way about him based on no real information, he realizes he’d be horrified to have her judge his actual personality as well. A man can only take so much.

“Um,” he tries again, slipping his wallet into his back pocket. “Have a good day!” he keeps his voice cheerful as he walks out of the security area, hoping, praying that she will not command him to stop and turn around, because honestly, he has something far more important to do. 

And it works. He’s now made it to the elevators and pushed the up button, and he’s waiting. It’s silent in the lobby as he watches the numbers above the elevator slowly tick down to the first floor. He looks over as some new guy barges loudly into the lobby, making a beeline for Francy and demanding she validate his parking ticket _right now_. And oh, how Remus would love to see how this turns out. He really would, especially by the way that Francy’s demeanor hardens before she stomps right up to him, completely unintimidated by the height discrepancy between the two. However, the elevator opens, and he has places to be. 

It’s empty, and Remus steps in, immediately pressing the button for the fourth floor. Right before the doors shut in front of him, a smile lights up his face when he hears Francy’s voice ring out to say something along the lines of _You’d better watch your tone, you little—_

And with that, the elevator makes its slow and clunky climb up to the fourth floor. The doors creak open to reveal a familiar place, adorned in a color palette reminiscent of the height of 1970s chic, which he’s come to know well over the past two days. There’s something funny about the concept of freedom — of being in a particular place of his own volition as opposed to being held there by some sort of obligation, dependent on others to determine when he is free to go — for now the fourth floor of courtrooms feels nothing like it had on Wednesday. Even the fluorescent lights seem inviting, somehow; look, one is even winking at him.

And the Americano wasn’t actually _that bad,_ if he’s being honest. 

While he’s at it, maybe Jim Potter is actually more strategic than Remus gave him credit for. Maybe he’s genuinely a good attor—

No, too far. He shakes his head as he surveys the scene, finding the entire floor altogether pretty quiet. He checks the time — it’s 11:28. He expects that most of the hearings will be released soon, if his own experience is any indication at all, and takes a seat on one of the benches along the wall.

But it’s quiet. Almost eerily quiet compared to the semi-aimless hustle and bustle Remus remembers, and an entire ten minutes goes by before anything happens at all. He looks to the right as three people come out of a courtroom at the end of the hall. They look bedraggled and embittered, and what Remus catches from their accompanying attorney’s ‘pep talk’ paints a grim picture. Remus thinks he recognizes him as the shorter defense attorney who had been negotiating with Sirius the day before. They slump miserably to the elevator as Paul speaks quickly and in a hushed tone — and really, what a reminder that a lot of people are dealing with much greater hardships than attending jury duty — and then all is quiet again.

Remus gets up after another couple of moments pass and heads back over to the elevator. He might as well check the cafe on the tenth floor and grab a coffee for his trouble, since he’s practically a resident here now for how well he knows his way around. 

A half-full elevator greets him, and conversations about weekend plans fill up the space. Sally is hosting a ‘beauty’ party in her backyard on Saturday, and Jon — or maybe his name is Don — is doing ‘not a goddamn thing’ beyond ordering a pizza and watching some hockey. Sally drops off at the eighth floor, but JonDon stays until they reach the tenth, sending Remus a jovial ‘have a good weekend!’ as he steps off and heads in the opposite direction of the cafe. 

And that’s to be determined at this point. Remus scopes the room, eyes landing on a familiar face. Deborah is at the counter, and she’s looking in a better mood than he had seen her on Wednesday, but he doesn’t have enough faith in himself to assume that won’t change as soon as she sees him. Because, well, apparently at the courthouse, he has one of _those_ faces. 

A scan of the room informs him that this move was another fail, and he wants to kick himself for the cognitively dissonant relief he feels at that, but saunters up to the counter anyway. It can’t hurt to kill some time. There’s only one person ahead of him today — really, shouldn’t it be more crowded during business hours? Courts are in session on Fridays, right? — and after she grabs a pre-packaged sandwich to go, he steps up, feeling like he is meeting the final boss of a videogame. He takes a deep breath and goes for it. 

“Hi,” he breathes out through the friendliest smile he can muster. “Happy Friday.”

She breathes a sigh that sounds like agreement, and wow, that’s certainly an improvement. Remus hopes she doesn’t recognize him as Fork Man, and so far he thinks he could be in the clear. “What can I get you?” she asks. 

“Just a cup for coffee, please,” he says, pulling his wallet to grab a bill. 

“Fresh brewed just five minutes ago,” she says as she enters some digits into the till in front of her. “Two dollars even.” 

“Oh how lucky,” he drawls out with a smile, fishing out the money and handing it over in exchange for the paper cup. And then, “Thanks so much.”

“No problem, hon,” she gives him as she hands him some change. He steps aside, and the woman behind him steps up to the counter in his place. And ‘hon’, that’s a motherfucking monumental step forward — maybe Remus is half-likable after all, maybe that existential crisis can be put on hold for now. Maybe he _does_ know how to win friends, and even influence people to boot.

He takes the cup up over to the machine, steam rising as the coffee pours out of the spigot. And wait, is it possible that it even _smells_ better today? He gives the top of it a couple of quick blows before he pops a lid on and takes the first sip. 

It definitely tastes better today.

This place really isn’t half bad. 

He takes a seat at the corner table again and settles in, questioning himself now that he realizes he’s hanging around waiting for the second time with no sign he’s going to find what he’s looking for. But he takes comfort in the fact that posting up in this area makes the most sense. It’s where people congregate at this time of the day, and it’s Remus’ best course of action, even if thinking about it for too long makes him a bit uncomfortable.

But he doesn’t have much time to think in solitude before his attention is grabbed, by one Jim Potter to be exact, who has just waltzed into the cafe area, phone against his ear. As he gets closer, Remus detects him gabbing away about something related to ‘monitoring’, and ‘cycles’, and ‘ovulation’, and oop, that’s his cue to officially check out. 

And yet, he finds it difficult to stop observing the man. Jim steps to the side to finish off his conversation before slipping his phone in the pocket of his slacks and making the short remaining journey to the counter. There is something different about him, seeing him from this light in the cafe as opposed to standing in front of the gallery of the courtroom, waxing poetic about all the justice system. 

Remus tips his head to the side as he watches this curious show, lifting the coffee to his lips. Jim is unzipping his leather bag, his tongue poked out a bit and a look of concentration on his face as he digs around for something. A small yellow bag of Swedish Fish falls out to the ground while he locates his wallet. As a past candy aficionado himself when he was a toddler, Remus recognizes the bag immediately and approves of Jim’s choice; although he wouldn’t have expected him to have such classic tastes, would have pegged him as more of a Nerds guy. The man appears to notice the fallen baggy a moment later and picks it up, shoving it into the side pocket of his pants as he takes the final steps to the counter. 

“Deb,” he says with something that sounds like exhaustion, and after a glance back to see that no one was behind him, rests his forearms on the counter.

“Coffee?”

“Please,” he levels with her. And there is something different, not only pertaining to his voice, but also his demeanor as a whole. Remus’ eyes narrow in on him further as he takes another sip of his own cup of coffee, because this is _interesting._

Deb raises her eyebrows as she passes him a cup. “Long day?”

“Beginning of a trial,” James says with a wave of his hand, and Remus cannot believe his ears because there is a certain raging enthusiasm missing. He sounds, dare he say it, normal? “So it’s a good day. Opening statements went well. Tough case though,” he tacks on louder as he heads over to the counter with the coffee. 

“Well good luck with that, it’s always nice to see you around here,” Deb gives him before she turns her attention to the woman who has just gotten to the front of the counter to buy herself some sort of lunch. 

James sends her a salute as he finishes filling up his coffee, leaning against the counter as he waits for Deb to finish up with the short line of customers that has gathered. Remus watches him take the first sip of his coffee, deeming it too hot for consumption if the curse he mutters under his breath has anything to say about it, and texting away on his phone with his other hand. And what a completely, and shockingly, normal thing for him to be doing.

Remus spends a moment — because honestly he has many to spare — wondering what this man is like at home. He’s really trying to picture it. Before this incredibly mundane interaction with Deborah, he would have sworn that Courtroom Jim was one dimensional, exhausting and annoying in all endeavors that life had to offer. But perhaps… perhaps Remus had been wrong, and magic tricks aside, perhaps Jim Potter was just an average guy, doing his best to be as successful at his job as possible. And it probably worked pretty well for him.

“Deb,” Jim breaks back in after the line has cleared and Deb is free again.

“Yeah, hon?”

“Coffee is fantastic today,” he puts out. And Remus doesn’t exactly agree with that as he takes another sip — it’s good at best — but his day hasn’t been all that stressful, so maybe that makes all the difference. “You’re a real hero, you know that?”

Deb snorts at that, throwing him an overexaggerated wave as he doubles down on the sentiment and confirms it with a powerful _mhm_ that she seems to enjoy enough to laugh at. “Didn’t get much sleep last night I’m guessing?”

“That is correct,” he gives her before another swig, and when he looks over vaguely in his direction, Remus lifts his own cup of coffee in front of his face, like the sleuth that he has apparently become. And it seems to work, because Jim’s eyes skim right over him before landing back on Deb and elaborating a little more. “I showed my son the movie ‘The Little Mermaid’ a bit too soon apparently. Kept him up all night terrified.”

Deb makes a sound that indicates he’s probably right about that. “Let me guess. Ursula nightmares?”

A sigh. “I’m afraid so. I should have known. Should have stuck to the Wiggles like Lily said,” he mutters with regret, a hand pushing into his disheveled hair and making it somehow more disheveled in the process. “So I had an almost three-year-old wander into our bedroom last night crying about a purple monster, shoving his way into the middle of the bed to snuggle Mommy, and then proceeding to kick Daddy in his sleep until Daddy’s alarm went off at 6am.”

Deb lets out a sound of sympathy, and before he can stop himself, Remus hears himself let one out too. Because there he goes again, getting caught up in another courthouse story. 

“I have been there, trust me,” Deb empathizes. “And you’re still trying for baby number two?”

Jim laughs. “It gets exhausting having to be ‘on’ all the time, you know?” And even his voice sounds different. It hits Remus that this must be the real Jim Potter, the one who took pictures of Sirius on the toboggan and the one who made Sirius the godfather of his kid. Not the one in the courtroom who had the power to drive Remus to complete insanity if he had been forced to hang around long enough. “But there’s never been an easier decision. Plus, I’ve got you here, Deb, fueling me with caffeine so I can excel at both my jobs,” he continues on, and the more he speaks, the more energetic he sounds. More like the Jim Potter that Remus got to know in Courtroom 4D. And there must be something to the age old phrase ‘fake it ‘til you make it’, because Remus is seeing the man transform right before his eyes. 

“Get yourself a refill then,” she nods at the coffee carafe. “It’ll be my good deed of the day.”

Jim’s voice rings out into something high pitched, reminiscent of angels singing, as he rejoices at this. “You,” he says as he points a finger straight at Deb. “God must have spent a little more time on _you,_ you hear me?” And there it is, the Jim Potter he knows so well, back in form and using a reference that even Remus can appreciate.

She lets out a belly laugh. “Refill your coffee and get out of here, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Perhaps,” he gives her as he turns to top off his cup, “but I’m certainly not ungrateful,” he finishes, securing the lid back in place.

“Certainly not,” she confirms, giving him one last goodbye as he turns away and walks out of the cafe, looking far more peppy than when he had entered. And wow, Remus had just watched a man literally recharge right before his eyes. 

He sits for five minutes with his coffee, sipping slowly as he examines anybody and everybody who enters the cafe. But after another five minutes flies right on by, there’s still no action, and he really cannot hang around here all day — it was bad form to up and leave in the middle of the day at all.

He stands up from his table as he vaguely mulls over what excuse he’s going to give his colleagues for the strange behavior, grabbing his empty cup and throwing it into the trash can. He moves back over to the elevators and selects the down button, checking his phone to see that the time is 12:39 now. He’s given this mission his best shot, and it probably wasn’t the smartest idea to begin with… so perhaps this failed attempt was the universe’s way of saying, ‘Calm down, Remus. Let me save you from further embarrassment.” 

The elevator on the far right dings. Remus steps over in front of it. It opens. 

And _oh._

He blinks. And there Sirius is, leaning against the side wall of the elevator. He’s looking down at his phone, typing something out on it with one hand and holding a couple of folders in the other. And Remus simply doesn’t know what to do now that the point of his midday courthouse visit is standing right in front of him.

In the meantime, the elevator doors start to slide closed. 

Remus comes to his senses and throws caution to the wind, along with one arm to halt the elevator from closing, and then his body follows, pushing himself through the doors less than gracefully but with ample conviction to make up for it. The commotion is enough to make the other man glance up, and even Remus notices when he does a double-take, right before a switch flips and a wide grin makes its way onto his face. 

“I, uh…” Remus tries, out of words this time, as the elevator closes on them.

Sirius cuts off his blundering, sliding his phone into his pocket, delighted smile intact. “We have _got_ to stop meeting like this,” he says with faux exasperation.

His eyes are luring Remus like a thousand sirens giving off their call, and it’s too much, too much for him to form words at least, so he just slides himself into the other man’s space in a move that is truly outside the bounds of what he expects of himself. Another second later and an emboldened Remus has the lapel of Sirius’ black blazer clutched in his hands, pressing him a fumbling step backwards flush against the wall, answering the look of surprise on his face by weaving a hand into the locks of hair at the nape of his neck and meeting their lips in a searing kiss. 

Remus’ bearings are all turned around at this point, but he manages to register the sound of papers falling to the ground, just before Sirius’ arms are wrapped around him. The slow dance of Sirius’ lips is making Remus heady all on its own, and tack on the fact there’s a hand pressing against his lower back to bring him closer now, and Remus’ brain has completely abandoned ship.

“Oh, thank god,” Sirius mumbles against his mouth a moment later, and Remus takes that pause to come up for air. He opens his eyes just long enough to see vibrant tidepools of gray and blue looking back at him— 

And Remus melts into it further. “Call me Ishmael,” he hears himself sigh before diving back into the vortex that is Sirius’ face.

But the other man freezes. And Jesus Christ, did Remus just say that out loud? Remus freezes too. Sirius pulls back an inch. “Excuse me,” he whispers, amusement animating the smirk on his face. “Excuse me, but what did you just say?”

“It was nothing,” Remus attempts to brush it off, quickly placing his mouth against Sirius’ again to move right on past his moment. 

And it seems to work, because Sirius angles his head and is kissing him from the other direction now, and Remus is floating. But only a short few seconds later, he feels an exhalation against his lips before Sirius pulls back once again. “I just…” he starts, pausing to kiss the corner of Remus’ mouth and then starting up again, “I really need to know why you just recited the first line from Moby Dick.”

Remus leans forward again, only to have Sirius mirror him and move his own head back, face out of reach. He shoots Remus a smile as he merely stands there waiting. His upperhand in this situation, too, is palpable.

Remus glances left, then up, blinks twice, and then finally looks at Sirius again. Deep breath. Fuck it. “It’s your eyes. They do things to me,” he sputters out, and then with an errant wave of his hand, “of an oceanic nature apparently.”

Sirius bites the inside of his bottom lip, and Remus’ eyes can’t help but follow the movement, because even though it’s just meant to keep his laughter in and is technically happening at Remus’ expense, Sirius’ lips are just... “I mean that’s nice to hear,” he finally gives him, moving one hand from where it’s resting at Remus’ hip to move a curl behind his ear, “I’ve just never inspired a quote from a classic novel about a giant whale before. So that’s a new one for me.”

The elevator dings again and Remus scrambles the next second to detach himself from the other man — continuing the daily theme of being horribly ungraceful — as an unfazed Sirius makes no movement at all, merely standing calmly in the same place he had been when Remus had entered the elevator. Infuriatingly unperturbed. But Remus isn’t too disappointed by this chain of events, as it saves him from expounding on something totally nonsensical that he can barely put it into words beyond, ‘eyes, ocean, titanic, Moby Dick’, ‘you know, the ocean metaphors that describe the drowning feeling I get when I see your face, Sirius‘.

He realizes that they’re on the second floor now, but there is nobody on the other side of the elevator doors. 

“No court for me today,” Sirius explains. “Was just picking up some files,” he continues, looking around to survey the damage. And right, papers are scattered all over the floor now, and Sirius is leaning down to pick them back up now. He looks up as he gathers them together. “We can head to the lobby, I’ll walk you out.”

“Right,” Remus says, pressing the button to take them down one more level. And it dawns on him, everything that has just taken place in the span of 2.5 minutes, and all of it of his own volition. Another moment, and he remembers why he came at all. He takes a deep inhale. “I need to give you my number,” he declares.

Sirius smiles as the elevator starts to move again. “And to think, you could have found my email online and I would have responded in a heartbeat.”

Remus blinks. That would have saved a lot of time and precisely one fishy debacle. 

“But I am happy you chose the harder route,” he continues, rising back up to a standing position, stuffing the papers in the folders, probably out of order, but it’s a start. “More meaningful that way.” 

There’s a moment of silence between them — eyes meeting for a brief second, a quirked smile on Sirius’ face, and one that’s mirrored back to him on Remus’ — and then the elevator opens again.

Remus pulls out his phone as they walk out and Sirius gestures wordlessly for Remus to hand it to him. And after pulling up his contacts, he does just that, walking forward as Sirius types in his information. 

“I’m out of town this weekend, but maybe we can make plans for next Friday or Saturday?” Sirius asks while they walk through the lobby and towards the door. 

“Uh,” Remus starts, as he pulls up his Uber app again, finding a driver just two minutes away, “absolutely,” he answers with a sigh of relief. Because this little quest of his had actually gone successfully, and here he was, standing by the exit of the courthouse planning out a date with the exact man he had abandoned a meeting to race downtown to see. 

“Great,” Sirius answers, handing the phone back to Remus. “I’ll give you a call early next week.”

And with a squeeze of Remus’ hand, Sirius turns and closes the few steps toward the stairwell, flashing one look back at Remus before opening the door and disappearing behind it. 

Remus waits a beat, his eyes remaining glued to the closed door as it all catches up with him. The whole endeavor had been a success, and it was still sinking in bit by bit, moment by moment. A somehow wonderful ending to an overall shitty experience. And the whole mission went too well for him to justify feeling any self-consciousness whatsoever, so he lets a well-earned smile tug the corners of his lips up as he turns toward the exit.

With a tiny bit of time to kill before his ride shows up, curiosity gets the best of him. He pulls up his message app, finding that Sirius had not only entered his phone number, but sent himself a text. He opens the thread to find one message sent from himself, and it reads:

_Ishmael._


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the chapter: [Heaven Is A Place On Earth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOGEyBeoBGM)
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this final chapter! My brainpower was needed elsewhere this month, and it haunted me all the while. But now it's finished and I couldn't be happier :).

Sirius made good on his word, calling Remus Monday night to arrange plans for the following weekend. It was a short and sweet call, to the point — dinner on Saturday night, they decided— but enough to get Remus’ mouth turned up into a smile. His face lit up as soon as he heard the other man’s voice, though, so he couldn’t really pin it on the quality of the conversation.

It was easy and natural over the phone, always a good sign and strangely hard to come by. In Remus’ opinion, if two people have enough chemistry to carry on a phone chat, let alone an hours-long elevator conversation, without succumbing to awkward silence, that says a lot. They didn’t stay on the line more than five minutes or so, during which Sirius confirmed he would pick him up at his house at 6pm and put in a joke about Remus _please_ trying his best not to be underdressed, ruffian that he is. If the 90’s were still a thing, Remus was sure he would have been twirling the phone cord around his finger and the feeling was refreshing as hell.

Refreshing in the moment, and he found once they hung up that all he could think about was continuing their conversation about nothing on Saturday. The days couldn’t go by fast enough, and his mind was completely preoccupied at work the following day with mundane fantasies about how the evening would go. At one point during a meeting, a repeated call of _Rem. Rem… REMUS,_ had broken him out of a daydream of what witty banter the two of them would partake in as they sat across from each other dining on steak tartare and whatever highly-rated red wine Remus selected from the restaurant after using his trusty Wine Spectator app. Which by the way, there was no doubt in his mind that Sirius would be wildly impressed in that regard. He would absolutely fucking nail the wine selection. It’s in a bag, just give him the medal now.

The fact was, Remus couldn’t wait for Saturday on account of two key reasons. One, he would be a fool to deny by this point that his mind, body, and soul were completely drawn to Sirius. Every aspect of him emphatically wanted to spend more time with the man, like the inevitable quality of two opposing magnets attracting, except Remus didn’t think of them as opposites at all in any real sense. Two, showcasing that he really was more than the exasperated naysayer he teed himself up as at the courthouse was something he _needed._ He was fun, he was smart, he gave into temptation for a good time every now and then. He’s not like other 30-somethings. He’s a _cool_ 30-something. 

Remus knew he had a lot to offer beyond bitching about coffee and sulking about with a permanent frown on his face, and now was his motherfucking time to shine, bitches.

Wednesday through Friday was a blur of meetings, presentations, and time at the gym to keep his mind as busy as he could. And thank god he loved it all, because there were few things he appreciated more than activities that were simultaneously productive and enjoyable enough to pass the time without much effort on his part. By Saturday morning, he was buzzing — no, really, he was quite literally vibrating. Especially after he woke up to a text from Sirius confirming that Remus was still available — a text that brought out a laugh from him so loud that he would have been embarrassed for it, save for the fact that he lived alone and answered to no one. _Oh, I’m still available,_ he smirked to himself as he shot back a text confirming the time and giving Sirius his address. 

Then it was time for a fucking long, long bike ride.

And here he is now, Saturday evening, careening from excited to nervous in the blink of an eye. Easy confidence thwarted by his own worst enemy, himself. 

It’s 5:39 to be exact, and he’s being met with an onslaught of anxiety that is ratcheting up at hyper speed with each passing minute now. Not real anxiety so much, maybe just anticipation mixed with a growing dose of fear that gives the feeling a nervous edge as a whole. Because the fact has set in that it really had been a very, very long time since he had felt any of this. After Noah, he had become fearless in a sense; knowing that he could withstand that sort of pain and bounce back from it gave him an unshakable faith in himself. But this, he thinks as he paces around his kitchen, trying to find _something_ to clean though he already knows the entire house is completely spotless, is something different. 

Why should he be so apprehensive, though? C’mon Remus, old boy. They hadn’t known each other for long, but the time they had spent together in a small metal cage was top-notch, and then, well, his little display the next day had left little for either man to question anything. They are on the same page. And now Remus is ready to get to know Sirius better. Over dinner. A _date._ He’d find out more about Sirius’ childhood — an important first step to determine compatibility, Remus has found — find out about his vacation preferences; about his favorite sort of intellectual hobbies. And _maybe_ they would kiss again at the end of said date — Remus isn’t sure about that one, but he definitely wouldn’t mind it. Something he heard about ‘taking it slow’ when you really like the person and all that. 

He walks up to a photograph that he notices is hanging a little to the left and puts some of his anxious energy into fixing it. He looks around, and oh no, everything’s perfect, there’s nothing else to distract him.

He really wishes he had Jim Potter’s capability for self-directed pep talks right about now. FuUuUuUuck.

He makes for his bedroom now because it’s time to get dressed into something more suitable than the gym shorts and t-shirt he’d tossed on after his shower earlier. He’s pleased about his day as a whole, he reflects as he slides open the door, as any sort of anxiety always has a way of pushing his productivity into overdrive — demonstrated wonderfully by his 60 mile bike ride that morning and the fact that his house is somehow in even cleaner condition than normal. Not that it matters. Sirius is just picking him up, he probably won’t even come inside. But also it does matter, because, call him crazy, something about the smell of lavender cleaning solution really centers Remus. 

His closet looks larger than usual, more daunting, even though he makes it a point to keep his wardrobe minimal. He lets out a groan. A few pairs of jeans hang to his left while a selection of sweaters and shirts hang to his right. Ahead of him is the section of the closet he uses for attire that is a notch above casual — slacks, blazers, and button-up shirts. And fucking fuck, he doesn’t even know where they are going for dinner. 

Sirius hadn’t mentioned exactly, and Remus had forgotten to ask. Suddenly the joke from Monday isn’t funny at all anymore because _how does Remus know what’s considered underdressed without being given more information._

“You’re being ridiculous,” he says out loud with a shake of his head, and it isn’t typical that he actually talks to himself. But something within him has changed this week and at this point, nothing short of him breaking out into a spontaneous song or tears would surprise him. “Just ask him when he’s here and if you need to change, it’s an easy fix.”

His blood pressure goes back down to slightly above normal at his own highly reasonable suggestion, and besides, it’s so unlikely that Sirius would have planned anything that formal. He’s overthinking it. That or he might also be going a touch insane, so to remedy that, he looks toward the rack of jeans and grabs the first pair he touches. The winner is a slim fit dark wash. That’ll do.

Although it has been pretty warm outside, it cools down considerably at night, so he opts for a light sweater. The dark gray one calls to him for a reason he knows instinctively without having to articulate, and instead of debating further, he grabs it off the hanger. Unnecessary mental anguish averted.

He looks in the mirror at 5:48. And honestly, he’s hit with a moment of, ‘well this is as good as it’s going to get,” before he messes with his hair a little more, giving it that certain look that falls somewhere between well-groomed and laid back. As he positions the sweater so that the v-neckline falls nice and symmetrically over his collarbones, he tries to recall if this is anywhere near normal, this level of giving-a-fuck that has graced him tonight, and it doesn’t take much to determine that no, it’s extremely unusual for him. Contrasted with his typical ‘Well this probably won’t work out too well, so beyond looking presentable, what does it really matter?” attitude, he really, really does care about this date. He picks off a couple of stray pills from his sweater now and messes with his hair again.

And he would really like for tonight to go well.

With that, he turns away from the mirror, deeming that conclusion to be nothing but further anxiety provoking and moves back into his living room. He decides to sit on his couch and stare blankly at his bookshelf instead, trying to decide which book across the room from him could pass the remaining time most effectively without requiring any real concentration. He wishes he owned lighter reading material and suddenly understands why waiting rooms have a pile of trashy magazines. They, unlike yours truly, have mastered the distraction game.

But all thoughts about waiting rooms evaporate as the sound of knocking fills the room. He takes a deep inhale, checks his phone and finds that at 5:52, Sirius has arrived a little bit early. He’s actually relieved he’s been put out of his misery, letting out the breath. No need to pace around like a psychopath or drown his thoughts. He stands up and closes the distance to the door. 

Remus’s hand rests on the handle for a moment as he gives himself time for one last steadying breath. It’s showtime, folks. He opens the door to reveal one Sirius Black on the other side, looking far more casual than Remus has ever seen him, but absolutely no less alluring. And wow that is exhilarating, to actually experience real attraction to someone. Remus smiles back, feeling renewed, letting their eyes settle on each other.

“Hi,” Remus speaks first, really going for the gold. 

Sirius cocks his head to the side. Then he blinks. “It’s really good to see you.”

And it is. It really is, Remus agrees, too busy vehemently agreeing with that statement in his mind to actually respond with anything verbally. Everything about Sirius is as put together standing on his doorstep as he is in court, and it’s demanding his full attention to take in. He’s wearing gray jeans and a black mock neck shirt, thin enough for Remus to see the outline of his biceps through the material. The look is matched perfectly by the confident smile on his lips, his posture easy and effortless while screaming of a kind of masculinity that leaves Remus a little breathless on the outside, and absolutely screaming for mercy on the inside. Pair that with eyes bright as ocean glare, pointed right in Remus’ direction and capturing his soul, and Remus realizes he never really knew what true beauty was until he met Sirius Black.

Sirius clears his throat. 

Oh and good news, Remus realizes that he is already dressed appropriately according to Sirius’ attire, so he had nothing to worry about all along. 

Sirius blinks twice.

Oops, right, Remus is supposed to say something — to use his words. He clears his throat too. “Sorry, it’s good to see you too.”

Sirius laughs, gazing down to the right for a couple of beats before looking back up at Remus, eye contact as poignant as ever. Moreso now, actually, outside of the courthouse, in the doorway of where Remus lives. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

Sirius taps his foot and tries again. “You ready to go?”

“Uh, yeah,” Remus nods with more conviction than his voice gives off, and Sirius chuckles again. He pats the back pocket of his jeans to make sure his wallet is in there, and then, “Oh let me just grab my keys, I’ll be back in a second.”

“Alright,” Sirius agrees, smiling in a way that makes Remus feel as though he can see through him completely. 

He turns quickly and walks down the short hallway to the kitchen, taking his time to recover from the utter sucker punch Sirius has laid down on his senses. He gets back to the front door, smiles at the other man, and breathes in long and deep. 

“Alright, let’s go,” he says, taking a step forward as Sirius moves to the side to make room for him. 

“I think you’ll like where we’re going,” Sirius starts to say as Remus pulls the door closed behind them.

The house is quiet in their wake, except for the metallic sound of Remus’ key jiggling in the lock, then the turn of the deadbolt.

The men are talking, but their conversation is more and more muffled as they head to Sirius’ car. Five seconds pass. The conversation flows easily, but not a word of it is audible. A car honks somewhere off in the distance.

Twenty seconds pass.

One could hear a pin drop. Complete silence fills every nook and cranny of the space they’ve left behind. And it really is spotless around the house, although there is a postcard stuck on the refrigerator that looks quite out of place given the absolute orderliness of the rest of the room. It displays a picture of the Northern Lights that his parents had seen as a part of their Alaskan cruise a year back. “Although the trip was quite romantic with just your father and I,” the card reads in his mother’s handwriting on the other side, “next time you will absolutely have to join us because I have truly never seen so much splendor.”

A minute passes.

There’s no sound beyond the light ticking of a clock in the kitchen. Classic clocks aren’t so common in the digital age, and that’s a reason that Remus will forever insist on having one in his house. Tick. Tick. Tick. T—

When suddenly, the sound of a wild key fumbling against the lock approaches.

The door flings open sloppily as Remus and Sirius stumble inside, arms entangled and their bodies pressed together starting at their lips. It’s a tornado of motion, Sirius’ foot kicking the door closed behind him — Remus too preoccupied to even think about locking it for the first time in his life — as he grabs Remus at the hips and steers them down the nearest hallway.

And Remus, never one to slack when it comes to teamwork, is multitasking as well, walking backwards with full trust in Sirius’ blind navigation while his hands go straight for his belt, deeming it the most immediate item between them that needs to go. 

He pulls the belt through the loops on Sirius’ jeans, throwing it with far more force than necessary at his couch — but hey, that’s how badly he wants the fucking thing off — as Sirius’ hands roam under the hem of shirt and up the sides of his torso. 

“Upstairs or downstairs?” Sirius pulls back for one excruciating second to ask, but Remus barely registers it at all, not until their lips are back against each other and moving at the hurried pace they had established before even reaching the car, right after Remus stumbled and Sirius reached out to steady him. The Look that Remus trained on him when Sirius’ hands wrapped instinctively around his arm and waist was evidently the last straw for Sirius, and was Remus all that sorry about it in this moment? Nope.

But then the words do register, and when one of Sirius’ thumbs draw a circle low around Remus’ hipbone — fingers feeling as sharp as knives against his sensitive skin — Remus comprehends their urgency. 

“Downstairs,” he practically gasps as he turns his head away from Sirius. He grabs Sirius by the wrist instead and takes a couple of leading steps towards his bedroom on the left. “Over here.”

And the night wasn’t supposed to go like this, not with the two of them discarding their own shirts on the way, leaving a trail of clothing on the floor. It really was not, if one were to ask Remus. They were going to date for a while, establish what they were looking for in a partner, what they were looking for in life. Establish the important facts, like where Sirius would travel to if he had a completely free trip (Thailand for Remus), or which dead author he would resurrect and speak with over dinner if he had the healing power of Jesus in his perfect hands (Solzhenitsyn or bust, although Jung was an acceptable answer as well). They were going to take it _slow_. Build something real and lasting, because for the first time in years, Remus found that he wanted that again.

Except all those best laid plans of taking things slow became moot as soon as Sirius presented himself in Remus’ doorway. And by the time the bedroom door closes behind the two of them, any remaining hesitation has evaporated completely.

*****

Remus slowly wakes up. He feels warmer than usual, his limbs feel more drained than usual, and the room is certainly brighter than usual. It’s a slow transition back to consciousness; slow and comfortable, even if his skin does have a sticky feel he isn’t accustomed to. 

His neck has got a bit of a kink, and when he makes the conscious decision to reposition his head on the pillow in a more comfortable manner, he finds two unexpected pieces of information. First, as he turns, he’s greeted with a small pool of his own drool that so daintily fell from his mouth during the night; and second, he’s not laying on a pillow at all. 

His eyes snap open when the activities of the night before come back into focus. The two men certainly did not make it to dinner and Remus now finds that his head is ever-so-gracefully lodged under Sirius’ arm and against his chest, and he cannot for the life of him reconcile how he slept through the night so soundly in such a position. Because he did sleep soundly, deeply, practically dead to the world, before waking up quite fully alive and supremely well-rested.

With Sirius. In his bed. 

And the crazy thing is, he realizes as he comes to, he... likes it.

He’s using his abdominals to pull himself out of Sirius’ armpit and balance on his forearm, finding the other man wide awake, his free arm lifted in front of him, holding the copy of _Self-Reliance and Other Essays_ Remus keeps on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. But he’s looking at Remus now, not the book, and if Remus had to take a guess, the other man had probably been awake for a good while at this point. 

“Sorry,” Remus speaks with a groggy morning voice, and when Sirius raises his eyebrows as if to say ‘whatever the hell for,’ Remus wipes his hand on Sirius’ chest where his mouth had just been and elaborates with, “I don’t usually drool.”

Sirius laughs at that, snapping the book shut with his free hand. His other curls itself around Remus’ bare waist as he shifts upwards, the sheet covering their lower halves feeling silky and cool as it slinks across his skin with the movement. “Considering where our mouths went last night, I’m really not going to bat an eye at a bit of drool.”

His voice is smooth and unbothered, no sign of fatigue, and Remus can’t help but laugh at the content of his words as he falls back against the pillows and props his head against the headboard. Maybe he should be embarrassed. He probably should be. And yet, in a wicked turn of events, he’s absolutely not. 

He turns his head to meet Sirius’ gaze and smiles, not minding the arm pulling him closer in the least, not thinking anything of it when Sirius leans over to leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses around his jawline and up to his ear. “That was pretty spectacular,” Remus gives him, noticing the two empty packages of condoms on the floor in his peripheral vision, and somehow the bottle of lube had made it down there as well. Thank God someone had at least taken the effort to push the cap closed on it. He doesn’t think it was him.

Sirius shifts his body over a bit before pulling them both right back down to lie flat on the bed. It’s a bit of a struggle, but they make it there all the same with Sirius on his back and Remus on his side, slotted against him and resting his chin in his propped up hand. Sirius looks back at him with ease. There’s a soft smile on his lips and an arm holding Remus close, and his fingers are drawing invisible pictures along his spine. 

“Sorry we didn’t make it to dinner. I really did have every intention of getting there,” Sirius says.

Remus lets out a laugh, but it comes out half as breathy as he would like, considering the fact that it is now morning and he still has not brushed his teeth — a crime on any other day, but not abhorrent enough in the moment for him to give it another thought. “I blame it on my uneven sidewalk; we didn’t stand a chance, really.”

Sirius hums at that. “You do have a record for being an instigator at the point, in incredibly creative ways I might add,” he points out as his fingers move up to the base of Remus’ neck, “not that I’m complaining.”

Remus breathes out another laugh through his nose, surprising himself in the next moment when he leans in to plant a kiss at the corner of Sirius’ lips, then sidles himself back down on the bed. “Do you need to be anywhere today?” he asks against the crook of Sirius’ neck. 

He sends him a noise that sounds something like _eh,_ followed by an absolutely direct, “Do you need me to get out of here?”

“Not at all,” Remus answers instinctively, tilting his head upwards to get a decent view of the other man’s face. 

Sirius blinks at him. His expression is one of mild surprise, and he takes a couple of seconds before speaking again. “I need to get some work done later this afternoon, but maybe we could go to brunch?” He waves his free hand out in front of them. “You know, actually do what we had planned. Sort of.”

Despite no dinner, Remus isn’t even hungry. He’s too perfectly comfortable in his current position to be hungry. He doesn’t even want coffee. But he likes the idea nevertheless. “Yes. But let’s not rush out of here.”

Sirius lets out one succinct laugh, along with a squeeze of Remus’ shoulder, and that spurs him on enough to place an open hand on Sirius’ stomach and kiss up his shoulder. It’s shyer than the night before, as the morning after usually is, but there’s an accompanying ease to their dynamic. “I am all for spending more time with you in these most luxurious sheets known to man,” Sirius says softly.

Remus smiles with a hum and internally applauds Sirius for noticing. He lets his eyes drop shut as a hand moves up Remus’ neck and into his hair, his fingernails running softly against his scalp in circular motions. He fully settles back in against Sirius, sighing at the deepening relaxed state his hands and the warmth of the other man’s body are pulling him into. Remus’ head comes to rest in the crook of Sirius’ neck, the other man’s chin resting lightly on top of his head now as his fingers continue their unhurried massage.

It’s relaxing in the silence. And effortless between them in a way that Remus cannot name.

They stay like that, Sirius on his back looking up at the ceiling and Remus on his side tucked in next to him, floating together on calm waters, as the minutes tick on by with no pressure at all. He’s being lulled to the edge of sleep when the thought occurs to him that Sirius’ skin smells a little like tropical salt water. And, he realizes with a deep sigh, pina coladas. Pina coladas...

“Why is there a bird woman on your wall?” Sirius’ voice pulls him out of the half-sleep state that he must have fallen into while dreaming about getting caught in the rain with a hot guy on a white sand beach.

“What?” Remus mutters as he feels himself twitch minutely against Sirius’ shoulder. 

“This room is so organized and cohesive,” Sirius begins to explain, alert compared to Remus’ half-audible sleepy tones, and Remus feels the hand pull out of his hair. “And then there’s this totally out of place iridescent picture hanging there.”

Remus lifts his head enough to follow where Sirius’ hand is gesturing to, and he can’t help the raspy laugh that follows when he comprehends what the other man is referring to. And Sirius isn’t wrong, it doesn’t belong. “I got it in Egypt,” he explains, snuggling back in. 

“Authentic, I respect that,” Sirius hums, and Remus smiles at the vibration of his voice, truly wondering if he’s ever been this relaxed in his life. And then, “But why a bird woman?”

Remus snorts. “It just happened,” he says, opening up one eye when he’s met with silence to see that the other man is waiting patiently for more. He carries on, staying right where he is and speaking into Sirius’ collarbone, “I went to Cairo for a study abroad trip, I’d just turned, I think, 20 at the time. One of the organized trips we took was to the Souk, and at this point in my life I can’t remember much about the trip beyond the camels and the food and the pyramids—”

“What pyramids?”

Remus falters for a moment and raises his head, five levels more awake now than seconds before, equipped with a blazing look in his eyes directed at the beautiful man peering back at him, but in spite of the deceptively innocent look on his face, it only takes Remus a second and a half to figure out that he is joking. He’s a little slow on the uptake in the mornings. “Hilarious,” he says dryly, and then does laugh at himself for falling for it. Sirius sure seems pleased. “So we’re at the market. And the entire trip there I was kind of like…” he pauses and gives Sirius a skeptical look before admitting the truth of it, “I was like a celebrity because of my blond hair — it was truly blond then, a couple of shades lighter than it is now — and that is pretty rare there apparently.”

“Ohhh,” Sirius draws out with amusement, apparently on the metaphorical edge of his seat.

“They would have loved your eyes by the way. Very exotic,” Remus tacks on, earning a snort from the man beside him. He continues on at a leisurely pace, voice losing some of its raspiness with use. “So we went to this massive market. The kind where you need to really stay with your group while you’re there, otherwise you’ll take a wrong turn and be completely lost. And I get called over to a stall—”

“What do you mean ‘called over’?” Sirius interjects.

Remus clears his throat and raises his head again to speak through a lazy trumpet hand. “Boy with the golden hair! Angel boy, come here!” Remus repeats verbatim, because that is a part of the trip that he will never forget. And Sirius is beaming, predictably so. “And keep in mind,” he continues, dropping back down onto the shoulder that he’s made his permanent resting place, “I really did look like a _boy_. I was skinny and gangly and I probably have a baby face enough as it is, so imagine me at 20.”

“Precious, I’d wager,” Sirius adds, giving him a squeeze. “So you go over to this booth?”

Remus makes a half-hearted sound. “I felt that it would have been rude to completely ignore him, as awkward as I also felt. And the vendors at this stall were selling those papyrus paintings,” he explains.

Sirius hums. “I need to know, why did you pick that one?” he asks the million dollar question.

“Well, I didn’t exactly…” Remus replies, running his hand up Sirius’ sternum.

“The painting chose the man then?” Sirius clarifies, letting his own hand fall on top of Remus’ on its slow trip back down his chest, massaging the small muscles there. “You looked upon it and felt a connection that you had never felt before with the mysterious bird woman?”

Remus laughs through his nose and lets out a great, contented sigh. “Hardly,” he corrects. “The vendors were insistent that _that_ was the one I was destined to have. And it isn’t a bird woman, it’s the goddess Isis.”

“Oh really?” Sirius asks with an air of importance, gently shimmying the shoulder Remus is laying on.

“Yeah,” Remus trails off for a moment, huffing out a laugh before adding on the completely unnecessary fact, “she is the Egyption goddess of motherhood and magic,” but hey, he’s in the mood to share and he’s sure that Sirius will love that piece of information.

It has an effect on the other man, whose chest is quaking with laughter now. And it had been years since Remus thought about the situation, but now that he’s reminded himself, he has to admit it is pretty hysterical. And ridiculous. 

“But why?” Sirius tries again, perplexed.

“I can’t say, but joke’s on them I guess,” Remus says of it, getting ready to gesture between the two of them, but halting in the process because, well, the situation is obvious enough as it is.

“And you kept it,” Sirius volleys back.

Remus lifts himself up onto his elbow while nodding in obvious confirmation. “I mean, look at it, you can’t deny it’s fucking cool,” Remus insists with some conviction. “And I also paid way too much for it apparently, can’t get rid of it on principle,” he tacks on now that the memories are flooding back.

“There’s more to the story and I need it, please,” Sirius requests astutely.

Remus looks at him, figures after last night’s performance that Sirius has earned a little story-telling, and clears his throat once more. “Okay, apparently haggling is the thing to do there. The price they give you is not what they actually expect you to pay. You’re supposed to… I don’t know,” he trails off with a wave of his hand.

“Haggle?” Sirius finishes his sentence, running his hand up the forearm Remus still has draped against his chest.

“Right,” Remus affirms, letting himself fall back down next to Sirius. “And I just refuse to do that. In general. Not what I do.”

“Alright,” Sirius says, voice laced with amusement through and through, continuing to knead a path up Remus’ arm.

“So when they presented me with Isis, I just said ‘okay’ and counted out the amount of money they told me because, you know,” he explains in the best deadpan he can muster in position, “that’s how price tags work.”

“But did you even want the painting at the time?” Sirius asks, apparently intent on revealing all the ways Remus’ behavior at the time made no sense. Freakin’ attorney.

“I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to get away from the attention of it all and buying it was the only way out, I have no idea,” Remus psychoanalyzes into Sirius’ neck.

A pause. “You could have, I don’t know… walked away?”

Remus ignores that little comment, because Sirius just doesn’t _get_ it _,_ but apparently he feels like adding insult to his own injury for the sake of the other man’s entertainment, because he continues on nevertheless. Sirius certainly has that effect on him. “Then on our ride back, one of the girls asked me how much I paid for it, and it was a good five times more than anyone else on the bus paid for anything in the whole market, including the guy who bought a real ceremonial sword, so,” he finishes, clicking his tongue.

“Remus,” Sirius trails off without even really trying, succumbing to a snort of laughter.

“Look, the last thing I wanted to do in the moment was offend the guy by low-balling him,” Remus weighs in reasonably.

“It’s not offensive to just politely say ‘no thanks, that’s a little steep for bird woman’, which is definitely what he was used to hearing anyway,” Sirius adds, just as reasonably, before Remus intercepts his reasoning with gibberish sounds.

“Look, you got to where you are today because you’re all about confrontation,” Remus insists, trying to hold a straight face, but the quirk of his lips shows clearly in the tone of his voice, and when he moves his head back to get a look at Sirius, the amused expression on his face makes it even harder to maintain seriousness, “I, on the other hand, am what’s called ‘agreeable’; it’s, you know, how I find common ground and cooperate with people peacefully,” Remus explains didactically, walking his fingers across Sirius’ chest for no reason, knowing full well his argument is a real reach. But he’s committed now. He’s going for it.

“You never would have seen him again for the rest of your life, though,” Sirius raises, mouth pulled up into a dazzling grin before he suddenly takes a breath in and tips his head to the side to look down his nose at Remus. He makes a pensive sound that gives Remus a bad feeling that he’s about to lose. And when Sirius squints at him, he knows that yep, it’s over. “So basically, what I’m hearing is, complimenting your hair pays off.”

Remus blinks hard, trying to think of a clever retort to that jab, but finds that nothing comes to mind. _Shit_.

“Is that what I should have done?” Sirius continues instead, beating him to it. “Just complimented your hair to put you in a better mood while you were on jury duty and get you to go out with me?” he prods. “Wait, why would I have done that, it was so much more fun the way it happened.”

“Alright, you can shut up,” Remus holds back a laugh to say, pushing the bit of Sirius’ pillow he has access to up as a barrier between them.

Sirius pats it down and shoots him a sweet smile, eyes sparkling at Remus in amusement. Appreciation. Affection. Then he chuckles softly, unremarkably, just the sound of someone enjoying another’s company with no other care in the world. No mask on.

Remus senses a rush of something overwhelming and looks back up at the ceiling in response to that. The ceiling fan above them is at a low setting, probably a two out of five, just enough that it sends a cool breeze through the room. He watches it, eyes following one panel of the fan, as easy silence falls back between the two of them. Sirius’ arm still rests beneath him, around him, and when he holds Remus a bit closer, it just feels incredibly right.

Another long moment passes, an ambiguous amount of time. Remus feels Sirius’ stomach twitch beneath his hand. It happens again twice in quick succession, and Remus turns his head enough to see that he is laughing quietly, a wide grin on his face. Remus waits a moment, then Sirius sends him an apprehensive look and Remus doubles down with an expression to communicate _what in the world…?_

Sirius takes a long deep breath. Remus is very familiar with the strategy of harnessing laughter that is seemingly uncontrollable, and it’s not just about the ‘bird woman’ this time. It’s no longer about his refusal to haggle with a man in a foreign market. This is something new altogether and Remus raises his eyebrows this time to silently say _out with it, you beautiful clown._

Sirius exhales. “Dutch Apple Ass,” he says.

And, not what he was expecting. “Excuse me?”

He clears his throat. “The advertisements.”

A few seconds pass in bewildered silence. “I don’t understand…” Remus replies. “Dutch Apple what?”

“Dutch Apple Ass,” Sirius enunciates slowly in a way that sounds like he is thrilled to do so, despite how calm his voice is. “The townhome residents found out that thousands of dollars from their collective HOA fund were being funneled toward advertising a SoundCloud account, titled, and I quote, Dutch Apple Ass.”

Remus shakes his head, not fully believing that this bit of information had actually landed in his lap. He had come to terms with the sad fact he’d never learn what sort of HOA misappropriation could be so bad as to merit a lawsuit. “Dutch Apple A…” he starts in bemusement, finding it hard to take it all in. “But I thought this was privileged information?”

Sirius gives an easy shrug. “It’s a public trial. I sat in on it when I had a free hour at work,” he explains. Remus is hypnotized by it, by the access that the man has to such a treasure trove of entertaining information. The shit that he must see... “Evidently the teenaged son of one of the HOA board members was the criminal mastermind here.”

“I…” Remus pauses to collect his thoughts. Takes a breath. And then tries again. “I don’t understand. Why is the lawsuit directed at the entire HOA then? Why not this individual board member?”

“Higher chance of actually getting money from the HOA in a successful lawsuit than an individual who probably isn’t financially stable,” Sirius explains. “And surely that’s what a large part of the trial is looking into. There’s probably some amount of evidence that other members of the HOA knew or should have known that the embezzling was happening, otherwise it wouldn’t have gotten to trial. Maybe they agreed to a loan, who knows.”

Wow. “It’s just,” Remus says, scratching his nose, “so stupid.”

Sirius gives him an affirmative hum for that statement. “I agree, but why do you think it is stupid?”

He splays his hand in the air, feeling this is too obvious to even need an explanation. “You’re using _stolen_ funds to market your son’s shitty band—” 

“How do you know that they’re shitty?”

“Because _I know,”_ Remus insists, “You use these funds, again, _stolen_ , and just spend it on something that isn’t even an investment that will pay off. He’s not going to get it back—”

“I mean it could be an investment,” Sirius posits as though he is the devil’s number one most trusted advocate. “What if Dutch Apple Ass is the next Coldplay, Remus? The next One Direction?”

“It’s like,” Remus starts, waving his hand in a circle in front of Sirius’ face now, “you want _everything_ to be a debate,” Sirius laughs and catches his hand. “And I can never make my points.”

“That’s true,” Sirius gives him, settling in even more comfortably and pulling him closer, interlacing their hands. “It’s called charm, Remus. It’s called curiosity.” Remus gives him a deadpan stare. “But go ahead, carry on.”

“Can you imagine living with that stress?” he poses passionately, and a look to his left lets him know that Sirius is finally allowing him to take the stage. “Knowing that you embezzled money to pay for something as personal and ridiculous as your kid’s band? And always wondering whether or not you are going to get caught?” He inhales a long breath because the secondhand anxiety is really settling in strong now. “I just… I wouldn’t be able to breathe _ever._ I’d be paralyzed. Guilty. Paranoid. Miserable.” He takes a short pause to stop himself from listing all the adjectives he would like to, as not to saturate his listener, and concludes with, “I will never understand how it’s worth it.”

Sirius gives him an animated sound of agreement, Satan’s little helper no longer. “But that’s the thing about these people. They don’t think like you. They don’t think they are going to get caught. Or they’ve totally convinced themselves that they are justified doing what they’ve done, so that somehow makes it right, no matter who they have harmed. It’s alright, they are exceptions, rules and principles and laws don’t apply to them.” A pause, and Sirius’ tone turns into one of satisfaction. “Until they do.”

“No,” Remus says, the thought of being in that position absolutely too much for his pure heart to bear. 

A forthright nod. “Yes.”

A resounding huff. One of defeat. “I’m stressed just thinking about it,” he throws out expressively. “A prison of their own making.”

Sirius shakes again, laughing quietly before he takes the opportunity. “And then, in some cases,” he raises, “in _my_ cases — prison for real.”

And fuck him all the way until Tuesday, there’s something purely sexy about that statement. About the man lying right next to him, naked but for the sheet below his navel, and Remus can’t deny it. He’s impressive. He’s accomplished. He’s got a thirst for justice and an unwavering resolve to go after it no matter the confrontation. Fuck, he probably thrives off the confrontation. Remus’ weakness. Sirius’ strength. If Remus still wore a single article of clothing, he’d rip it from his body in a millisecond and slam it aggressively onto the floor. 

The room is suddenly very warm. And the heat is radiating off of Sirius’ smoking hot body. Remus can see the steamy inner workings of this man’s beautifully competent mind, calling to him, drawing him closer and closer. His hand moves outside his own volition, back to the other man’s abdomen, and he’s honestly surprised when the touch doesn’t burn him. Remus’ eyes move up to Sirius’ face — tracing every edge of his jawline, taking in the gorgeous contrast of dark hair against fair skin; a pop of pink from his soft lips, glistened even morso when his tongue creeps out of his mouth for a second to wet them — as his hand starts to travel lower. And Sirius must sense the shift, for when Remus’ hand moves down beneath the sheet and skims along his hip bone, tracing it delicately, Sirius shifts over and places his mouth on Remus’ neck, his own hand moving down Remus’ torso and closer and closer to the Promise Land—

Then he remembers. He’s hit in the span of a nanosecond with all of the important life things they were going to casually discuss over dinner. On their _first date._ They still haven’t even had their first date.

Remus freezes in place, his hand merely inches away from where he can personally attest his wildest dreams meet his actual reality. Because the night categorically Did Not go as planned, and he still needs more information.

“What,” he begins slowly, and Sirius looks at him now and raises one hesitant eyebrow, “is your relationship with your family like?” he finishes in the most casual tone he can muster given the fact they had been about two seconds away from banging.

Sirius groans. An honest to God real groan that lasts five whole seconds. And Remus hasn’t known the man long, but it sounds awfully out of character for him. He pauses for a moment, and when he has discerned that Remus is not, in fact, asking as a joke, gives him a placid smile and says, “It’s complete trash.”

Remus blinks. He blinks again. “What?”

Sirius sighs, and it sounds like defeat. “It’s very bad. Well, it _was_ very bad. Now it’s great because it’s nonexistent.”

Remus feels his pulse quicken — but no no no, it’s alright. This is just one question, just one facet, and what does it really matter anyway. The man has his life together. He’s a state prosecutor for fuck’s sake, and only _four percent_ of his cases go to trial. And those eyes. Who needs a sterling family relationship when one has those eyes. A life vest, maybe. A family, not so much.

Remus bites his lips into a thin line, thinking fast. “What’s your favorite thing to do when you travel?” he tries again.

A blink. “Depends on where I’m at,” Sirius answers monotonously.

“Well, of course,” Remus allows, his own tone fully conversational now. “But I mean, when you plan for the trip, what sorts of activities do you look into?”

Sirius shakes his head vehemently, and at least he’s getting into it now. “No, I never plan ahead,” he clarifies, “I arrive and then I just go out and see where the day takes me.”

Remus’ breathing constricts at the articulation of his nightmare. No, really, he’s actually had nightmares about that exact scenario before — of being in a new country and unable to get around because he doesn’t speak the language; no map, no cell reception, no idea of where to exchange currency, no address for the American embassy in case of an emergency. And the worse of the nightmare… the crippling regret from not planning ahead to reserve a tour of the Villa Borghese to see Bernini’s most gorgeous sculptures while in Rome because he had mistakenly thought they were actually housed in Florence like an utter fool.

Never again. 

But _perhaps_ — a small voice in his head makes itself heard, and Remus is willing to listen — perhaps more spontaneity could be good for Remus. Uncomfortable, yes. Anxiety-inducing, sure. But perhaps living on the edge a little, getting in touch with his dangerous side, could open doors that Remus wasn’t even aware existed. 

And with that, his pulse has normalized again. He’s channeled Jim Potter and has successfully brought himself back to center through effective self-soothing. Magical. 

“Okay,” Remus moves on, because third time’s a charm. And Sirius has accepted this spontaneous activity of Remus’ making, so he might as well take advantage. “If you could resurrect any dead author and have him or her over for dinner, who would it be?”

Remus watches as the other other man chuckles to himself. Sirius gives him a look somewhere between exasperation and appreciation before catching Remus off guard with junglecat-like reflexes and using his left hand to pin him flat on his back. Another second later and Sirius is on top of him, looking down at him, totally in control, wedging one knee between Remus’ legs, and Remus’ breath audibly betrays him when it hitches a couple of pitches louder than he would prefer just then.

“Remus, I don’t like to read.” It’s like ice water is dumped over his head because now they are zero for fucking three, folks. And this is _especially_ shocking news, the likes of which Remus never would have guessed in a million years. It’s, dare he say, unforgivable? But Sirius blasts right on past his stunned exterior, continuing to speak before Remus can get a single indignant word out. “And also, I know what you’re doing and you need to stop it.”

“What do you mean you don’t _like_ to read?” Remus manages to stutter out in a truly valiant feat.

Sirius isn’t fazed in the slightest. In fact, he looks like this is the exact follow-up question that he was expecting all along. “I spent three academic years reading 500 pages of case law a week,” he supplies matter-of-factly.

“But you knew the first line of Moby Dick—”

“And thank God it’s such a famous line,” he acknowledges simply before continuing as though Remus had said nothing at all. “I’m constantly reading up on new rulings that not only affect my area of law, but also any that could be tangentially related to my area of law. Criminal law. Criminal procedure. White collar crime. And that’s just to name a few.” His eyes scan Remus’ flushed face before finishing with, “So no, sweet naive angel boy with the golden hair, I do not read for fun.”

Remus blinks up at him, at his unwavering sense of self, and feels a little lost in it. “And what do I need to stop?” he blows right on past the previous topic, finding that the explanation makes sense in one way, but it is still not something he can, nor wants, to wrap his mind around. Doesn’t _read for fun._

And Sirius beams brightly at this before lowering himself down and kissing Remus along his collarbone. “Stop.” Kiss. “Trying.” Kiss. “To put.” Kiss. “Me into one of your boxes,” he concludes, and by this point he is lying fully on top of Remus, and it is easy to feel that things are definitely _reciprocated_ at the moment if the meeting of their pelvic regions has anything to say about it. And honestly, that along with memories of the night before are enough to break Remus out of whatever trail of thought he was clearly spiraling into, but Sirius elaborates nonetheless, even-keeled and articulate as always, even though he is now whispering into Remus’ ear in a tone nothing short of sensual. “We have a good thing going here, I think. So maybe all these little boxes you are trying to check don’t matter as much as you’ve previously thought that they do.”

A pause. “Maybe,” Remus ventures to whisper back.

“Maybe, and this is just a guess here... maybe you don’t want to let them hold you back from something that could be pretty exceptional,” Sirius continues, laying a kiss underneath Remus’ ear. “Plus, I think we’re already getting to know each other pretty well,” he continues, leaving another couple of kisses against the skin he has access to in punctuation. “Pictionary and heart-to-hearts about bad break-ups. And I could make a strong case that all of that says more about our compatibility than the fact that I came from a bad family,” then he lifts his head up to look right into Remus’ eyes. “So try not to hold that against me, yeah?”

Remus opens his mouth to speak, feeling that voicing some sort of protest is his knee-jerk reaction, but closes it after Sirius’ words sink in for even a brief second — he is a man who thinks before he speaks, afterall. One of his proudest traits. And there are a couple of factors contributing to this moment of thought. The matched arousal of the gorgeous man on top of him and his own sex drive that is quickly eclipsing any rational thought is certainly not insignificant. Nothing at all about their current position is insignificant. 

But besides that, besides the hot hot heat Sirius is subjecting him to with those lips of his, he isn’t wrong. Not at all. And maybe what he said a couple of seconds earlier isn’t earth-shattering to most people, but it certainly is to Remus, and he needs a moment to catch his breath before he responds with a resounding, “Yeah.”

“Yeah, what?” Sirius says, throwing a nod at him.

“I won’t hold it against you.” He smiles softly. “No boxes.”

“Good,” Sirius breathes out, sounding more than satisfied with Remus’ response, and Remus almost feels a shot of pride for answering correctly.

“And I’m not kissing you on the mouth right now,” Sirius whispers with pure eroticism into his ear, “because I just have a _feeling_ that you’d need the two of us to brush our teeth first before you’d allow that.”

“Oh my god,” Remus groans, his voice hitching in the process like something straight out of a porno because that is hands-down the most seductive thing he has ever heard. “You’re…” a keen now. “You’re perfect,” he finishes, only half joking in its hyperbole, because, wow does he feel understood.

Sirius doesn’t speak a response, but the hum against his ear is enough to send Remus over the edge. That’s it. He’s had enough, and now he has officially snapped. Enough talk, now is the time for action, especially when he knows just how fucking good it is. 

He lifts his hands to Sirius’ hips, digging his fingers into his skin as he brings their bodies closer together to create some friction. And then his hands drift upwards, with pressure, up along Sirius’ waist and around to the taut muscles of his back that are holding him into position above Remus. Sirius stays still as he lets him take his time exploring, a true saint of a man, until a few seconds later, when he doesn’t. Before Remus can comprehend what’s happening, he finds that his arms are pinned above his head, and in another moment, Sirius is holding down both of his wrists with one hand.

And it doesn’t stop there, thank the holy trinity for that, as Sirius uses his free hand to mimic Remus’ movements from seconds prior, moving at a far faster pace but in the opposite direction. Down his torso, down to his hips, before he shifts himself a bit to make room between them, grasping Remus and sending him catapulting into the motherfucking clouds—

 _Ooh baby, do you know what that’s worth?_ _  
__Ooh heaven is a place on earth_

Oh holy fuck, it certainly is in this moment with Sirius’ hand working between them both, the first touch that will undoubtedly lead into a tremendously needed repeat of last night. Remus tilts his head back against the pillow, arching his back and angling his pelvis upward to really become an active participant in everything that is happening.

 _They say in heaven, love comes first_ _  
__We’ll make heaven a place on earth_

What an apt song to enter his mind right now. Wow. And as Sirius whispers in his ear about where he might find that box of condoms that Remus had provided last night, he makes the determination that Belinda Carlisle wrote those lyrics just for him, and about this exact moment of time in his life, his ascent into the heavens.

 _And we're spinning with the stars above_ _  
__And you lift me up in a wave of love_

“Goddamnit, Belinda,” Sirius growls as he lets go of Remus and shifts his perfect naked body away to reach for his phone on the nightstand. 

“What?” Remus asks, sounding just as disoriented and slighted as he feels. His breathing is panicked — how did Sirius just read his mind and has this happened before, oh God — he’s feeling the loss, and his one-track mind needs Sirius to get his gorgeous bare skin back on his as soon as humanly possible.

“My alarm,” Sirius mutters, and at least he sounds frustrated too, before the room goes silent. His alarm? Hold on a second. It takes Remus another moment to get it, but once he realizes the song wasn’t in his head all along, cue the uncontrollable laughter.

The song that Sirius chose for his wake-up call had so perfectly fit into the soundtrack of his life that he hadn’t even realized it was playing outside of his head until it was shut off altogether.

“Why is that your alarm tone?” Remus articulates through another laugh as he watches Sirius step out of the bed to retrieve the lube off of the floor before pushing the top sheet down and sidling up against Remus once again. 

He rolls Remus onto his side then, pressing his front against Remus’ back, and the gesture is insistent to say the very least, and Remus is here for it. “It’s a great song,” he says without much feeling as his bottom arm snakes its way underneath Remus and his hand splays itself on his chest.

“It’s such a bop,” Remus continues, nearly unfazed by the hand that gets back to work doing exactly what it was before the interruption. Not to mention what he’s feeling against his backside. “But what is it with people using songs as alarm clocks?” he continues, voice going breathy, only barely conscious now of what’s coming out of his mouth as the rapturous feeling of what Sirius is doing to him takes over his senses, “What ever happened to the reliable fog horn—”

Sirius pauses the trail of open-mouthed kisses he’s been planting along Remus’ neck. “That’s the worst noise to wake up to. It’s like my doom is approaching, as opposed to a happy song that jumpstarts the day—”.

“Or one of those basic stock tunes that gradually gets louder?” The words keep slipping out of Remus’ mouth as he reaches behind to snake his hand into Sirius’ hair, feeling the other man press himself harder against his back and letting out a gravelly sigh into Remus’ ear. “Nature sounds? Or how about the classic ring of the traditional alarm clock—”

“Remus.” Sirius’ voice is stern and his hand lifts away, and the combination is enough to actually pull Remus out of this trail of words.

There’s an uncapping sound. “What?”

Sirius nuzzles his face sweetly into the place where his shoulder meets his neck. In contrast, his fingers assert themselves behind him, no misplaced hesitancy there, and he leaves a chaste kiss on Remus’ shoulder before his next movement draws a couple of unholy words out of Remus’ mouth. “Shut up.”

 _Baby, I was afraid before_ _  
__But I'm not afraid anymore._

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/quoththethestral)


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